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BUT,  AS  I 


looked  at  the  handsome  maid,  with  her  elbow  on  the 

AND  THE  WESTERN  SUN  GLORIFYING  HER  BRONZE  HAIR 


OLD  HAND-RAIL, 


Copyright,  1900,  1901,  by 

THE  NEW  YORK  EVENING  POST  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1901,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  & CO. 


INTRODUCTION 


The  papers  in  this  book  were  originally  con- 
tributed to  the  New  York  Evening  Post , where 
they  elicited  a printed  desire  for  their  preserva- 
tion in  book  form.  Written  at  intervals,  with 
very  slight  continuity  of  narrative,  for  weekly 
readers,  all  of  whom  could  hardly  be  expected 
to  follow  them  consecutively,  they  were  neces- 
sarily repetitious  and  explanatory  in  spots,  and 
required  rewriting  and  editing  when  collected 
in  book  form  for  continuous  reading.  Those 
papers  therefore  have  been  specially  prepared 
for  this  volume,  new  matter  having  been  in- 
troduced and  much  that  was  explanatory  to 
weekly  readers  having  been  eliminated. 

The  personages  introduced  are  taken  from  life, 
and  are  put  down  with  a free  hand  as  the  writer 
saw  them  at  the  time,  one  of  them  still  coloured 
by  the  fantasy  she  evoked.  The  sketches  neces- 


INTRODUCTION 


sarily  vary  with  the  varying  moods  which  one 
brings  with  him  to  Nature,  and  which  sometimes 
colour  and  distort  Nature  herself.  But  if  in  their 
entirety  they  convey  in  any  small  degree  the 
author's  slowly  matured  conviction  that  external 
Nature  has  a lesson  of  obedience  and  love  behind 
all  her  aberrations  and  laws,  and  whispers  that 
“ God  is  in  his  world  ” to  those  who  are  recep- 
tive and  attentive,  they  will  have  accomplished 
the  only  purpose  that  the  author  had  in  his 
mind. 

J.  P.  M. 


CHAPTER  I 

Page 

Scared  to  Life  .......  I 

CHAPTER  II 

Living  Backwards  . . . . . . .II 

CHAPTER  III 

The  Killing  of  Marmion  . . . . • .31 

CHAPTER  IV 

Haying  Time  .......  47 

CHAPTER  V 

Dumb  Intimacies  . . . . • • .61 

CHAPTER  VI 


A Summer’s  Pippin 


70 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  VII 
Listen  to  the  Mocking-bird 

CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Convalescence  of  a Cracked  Heart 

CHAPTER  IX 
The  Light  in  a Dark  Cell 

CHAPTER  X 
The  Glory  of  the  Way  . 


CHAPTER  XI 

On  a Porch  ..... 

CHAPTER  XII 

A September  Chill  .... 

CHAPTER  XIII 

Mature  Truants  .... 

CHAPTER  XIV 

The  Baptism  of  Dirt 

CHAPTER  XV 

A Fringed  Gentian. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Page 

Stramonium  . . . . . . • .192 

CHAPTER  XVII 

Chestnuts  by  the  Way  . . . . .203 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

Out  in  the  Cold  . . . . . • .213 

CHAPTER  XIX 

« 

Wood  Fires  . . . . . . • .226 

CHAPTER  XX 

High  Winds  . . . , . . • . 236 

CHAPTER  XXI 

Indian  Summer  .......  256 

CHAPTER  XXII 

Trailing  Juniper  . . . . . . .267 

CHAPTER  XXIII 

Winter  Skies . . . . . . . .283 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Snowed  In  . 

CHAPTER  XXV 
The  Return  of  the  Exiles  . 


Page 

• 293 


• 3°4 


But,  as  I looked  at  the  handsome  maid”  . . Frontispiece 


Facing  page 

12 


The  big  fireplace  at  the  end  of  the  room” 

Besides,  just  now  he  was  caring  more  for  that  yellow  dog”  14. 


. . . down  winding,  dusty  roads” 

. . . Gabe  Hotchkiss  split  my  wood” 
Gabe  had  two  teams  in  the  field” 

The  basin  was  not  full  enough  to  run  over” 
‘‘I  could  sit  and  watch  him  saw  wood” 

‘‘I  was  lying  on  the  grass,  attending  strictly” 


24 

46 

56 

60 

74 

80 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


. . were  the  labourers  stacking  the  corn  in  the  fields”  156 

‘The  beautiful  mountain  stream  ran”.  . . . 164 

‘We  drew  up  at  a long,  low  house”  ....  168 

‘I  looked  at  the  beautiful  specimens”  . . . 188 

‘ . . . I walked  in  another  direction,  and  bawled  out 

a stave  of  ‘The  Brave  Old  Oak’  ” . . . 248 

. . . along  which  the  stately  cedars  and  hemlocks”  . 276 

‘The  stark  tree  stems  with  the  afternoon  sun”  . . 284 


CHAPTER  I 

SCARED  TO  LIFE 

TO  pass  suddenly  out  of  the  very  tempest 
and  agony  of  life  into  the  dead  calm  of 
another  existence;  to  stop  all  the  rioting 
faculties  at  full  speed  and  go  quietly  away  to  vege- 
tating dreams,  is  an  experience  that  not  many  men 
have  had,  and  the  recital  of  it  may  not  be  without 
interpretative  edification  to  some  of  my  fellows. 

I went  out  for  a year.  I could  not  have  severed 
myself  more  completely  from  my  habitat  and  the 
myriad  points  of  contact  with  my  kind,  if  I had 
become  what  Coleridge  calls  “a  blessed  ghost.” 
I cut  my  species  dead  and  departed  this  life  as 
absolutely  as  was  possible  for  a man  to  do  with- 
out severing  an  artery  or  blowing  his  brains  out. 

i 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

I turned  my  back  on  the  world.  Not  to  rail 
against  it,  for  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  I was 
very  fond  of  it,  but  to  get  out  of  myself.  I was 
neither  a Timon  nor  a Thoreau.  Just  the  ordi- 
nary headlong  egoist  who  is  living  at  the  top  of 
his  speed.  I exiled  myself  to  forget  myself,  and 
I found  something.  Do  you  know  what  it  was  ? 
It  was  myself. 

One  day  as  I was  coming  out  of  the  Stock  Ex- 
change when  that  maelstrom  was  in  full  race  and 
when  I was  in  a sort  of  concentrated  paroxysm  of 
suspense,  — I got  a warning.  It  was  like  a stroke 
of  lightning.  Without  premonition  or  explana- 
tion, it  seemed  as  if  the  mental  tension  snapped 
suddenly.  I was  hurrying  to  my  office  when  I 
was  swiftly  and  softly  struck  with  sudden  death. 
I put  it  that  way  because  I know  of  no  other 
phrase  that  will  answer  exactly  to  my  sensation 
at  the  moment.  My  relation  to  the  rest  of  the 
world  broke  off,  and  a frightened  consciousness 
seemed  to  be  crying  out  — what's  that  ? I recall 
my  interpretation  of  the  sensation,  and  it  was  that 
an  iron  door  had  fallen  with  a clang  and  cut  me  off 
forever.  I had  run  up  unthinkingly  against  Eter- 
nity there  on  the  curb  in  front  of  the  Exchange. 

It  is  at  such  moments  that  we  measure  time  not 
by  its  successions  but  by  its  packed  simultane- 
ousness. 

I was  not  physiologically  expert  enough  to 
know  what  had  happened,  but  I readily  fitted  a 
current  phrase  to  it.  — Heart  failure,  I said.  And 
that  accommodating  explanation  conveys  no  idea 

2 


SCARED  TO  LIFE 


of  the  sudden  recession  of  all  the  tides  of  life  in 
a storm.  I must  have  been  pretty  thoroughly 
frightened.  Some  glimmering  recollection  there 
is  of  somebody  accosting  me  by  name  and  jocu- 
larly asking  me  if  I was  sunstruck  and  then  pass- 
ing on  in  the  human  flux.  By  some  phantasmal 
and  quick  prescience,  I saw  the  Secretary  mount- 
ing the  rostrum  in  the  Exchange ; there  was  a 
picture  of  momentary  hush ; all  hats  came  off, 
and  I heard  my  name  called.  It  was  coupled 
with  the  word  “ Suddenly.”  Then  back  went 
the  hats  again,  the  roar  began,  and  I was  dis- 
posed of. 

However,  the  mysterious  organ,  of  which  I had 
hitherto  been  profoundly  ignorant,  made  a spas- 
modic jump  or  two,  and  concluded  to  resume 
business,  with  what  I thought  was  a staggering 
protest,  and  I found  myself  in  my  office,  wonder- 
ing for  the  first  time  in  my  life  at  the  unnecessary 
headlong  nature  of  messengers  and  typewriters, 
and  showing  that  a good  scare  makes  a man 
incoherent,  by  replying  to  the  startled  girl  who 
asked  me  if  anybody  was  dead,  “ Yes ; I am.” 

Then  I was  rattling  up  Broadway  in  a cab,  say- 
ing to  myself  with  consummate  imbecility,  “ Keep 
cool,  for  heaven’s  sake  — don’t  excite  yourself.” 
But  by  the  time  I had  put  my  smoking-jacket  on 
in  my  bachelor  quarters,  and  had  sent  a messenger 
for  the  doctor,  I had  recovered  a little  of  my 
routine  indifference.  When  the  dear  old  man’s 
knuckles  struck  my  door  and  he  pushed  it  open, 
I was  walking  the  floor,  smoking ; whereupon  he 

3 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

threw  his  cane  upon  the  table  recklessly,  and, 
drawing  up  his  portly  form,  said  : — 

“Well,  confound  your  urgent  impudence!  I 
expected  to  find  you  breathing  your  last.” 

“ Perhaps  I am,  Doctor,”  I said.  cc  I had  an 
attack  on  the  street  of  heart  failure.  I want 
instant  advice.” 

“ Heart  failure  ? ” he  shouted.  “ Is  that  all  ? 
Confound  you;  I thought  you  had  the  influenza. 
Suppose  you  open  that  window.  I’ll  have  heart 
failure  myself  if  I breathe  this  atmosphere.” 

“ Do  you  think  it  would  be  safe  for  me  in  my 
present  condition  ? ” I asked. 

“Not  only  safe,  but  preferable.” 

I opened  the  sash.  It  was  an  early  spring  after- 
noon, and  the  sound  of  a newsboy’s  voice  came 
mellowed  by  the  distance,  as  if  from  a world  I had 
left  behind.  He  was  calling  a late  edition. 

“You’ll  excuse  me  a moment,  Doctor,”  I said, 
as  I rang  my  call  again.  “ I’d  like  to  see  the 
latest  quotations.” 

He  looked  at  me  curiously.  “ There’s  a break 
in  the  market  ? ” he  asked. 

“ Slump,”  I replied. 

“ Are  you  in  deep  ? ” 

“Up  to  my  ears.  But  it’s  my  health  that’s 
worrying  me.”  Then  I described  my  experience 
as  well  as  I could,  and  presently  he  had  my  coat 
off,  and  I was  under  his  professional  manipulation. 
He  called  it  taking  a look  at  my  assets  — hardly 
thought  I could  make  an  assignment,  and  various 
cheerful  remarks  of  that  kind,  while  his  cool  thumb 

4 


SCARED  TO  LIFE 


and  finger  were  poking  about,  and  his  warm  ear 
was  trying  to  catch  what  he  called  the  crack  of 
doom.  When  finally  he  sat  down  in  the  chair 
before  me,  he  disregarded  my  anxiety,  and  ran  on 
in  pretty  much  the  same  way. 

“You're  a lively  lot  of  boys  down  there  on  the 
street.  Your  mother's  alive  yet,  I believe." 

“Yes." 

“ How  old  is  she  ? " 

“ Seventy-six." 

“ How  old  was  your  father  when  he  died  ? " 

“ Seventy-four.  Come  to  the  point,  Doctor. 
What  chance  have  I got  ? " 

He  looked  at  me  a moment  very  much  as  if  he 
hesitated  to  tell  me  the  truth.  Then  he  said : “Well, 
my  boy,  it's  a toss  up  whether  you  live  to  be 
seventy-five  or  drop  dead  within  six  months." 

I felt  a nerve  in  my  face  twitch,  and  he  went  on. 

“ I suppose  I ought  to  congratulate  you.  It 
isn’t  every  one  who  has  the  privilege  of  going 
down  bow  first,  all  sails  set,  at  full  speed,  without 
committing  suicide." 

I asked  him  plainly  if  he  could  help  my 
chances. 

“ No,"  he  said  bluntly.  “It  would  be  an  im- 
pertinence for  me  to  disturb  the  intimacy  which 
you  have  established  with  sudden  death.  Besides, 
mortuary  neatness  and  despatch  have  been  very 
much  maligned.  Some  men  are  meant  to  live 
right  up  to  the  stopping  point,  take  all  there  is 
of  life,  and  then  exit  quickly  and  quietly  without 
any  fuss.  It's  quite  characteristic  of  the  business 

5 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

man  of  our  era.  It’s  what  somebody  has  called 
eliminating  the  corporal  superfluities.” 

“Then  I am  liable  to  die  at  any  moment, 
Doctor  ? ” 

“ Why,  of  course.  But  you  needn't  preen 
yourself.  It’s  a very  common  privilege  in  Wall 
Street.  You  prefer  it,  don’t  you  ? I’ve  seen 
a good  deal  of  dying,  and  I must  say  that  as  a 
rule  most  of  the  attempts  are  tiresome  bites  at  a 
cherry.” 

“ Doctor,”  I said,  <c  you  will  pardon  me,  I 
don’t  quite  take  your  view  of  it.  I prefer  to 
linger  and  suffer  a little.  I sent  for  you  because 
you  are  a doctor  and  not  a philosopher.  What 
can  you  do  for  me  ? ” 

“ Nothing,  except  to  give  the  undertaker  a 
clean  bill  of  voluntary  felo  de  se.  There’s  only 
one  thing  will  save  you.” 

<c  Ah,  what  is  it  ? ” 

“ A miracle.” 

“ Good  heavens,  Doctor  ! ” 

“ Yes,  sir.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  the 
dynamic  asses  of  this  world  say  that  a man  can- 
not lift  himself  by  his  own  waistband.  I suppose 
it’s  true.  When  you  can  do  that,  you  will  live 
to  be  seventy-five,  if  that’s  any  comfort  to  you.” 

“ You  are  brutally  frank.  I suppose  I must 
submit  to  my  doom,  but  I didn’t  send  for  you  to 
sentence  me.” 

;c  Sentence  you  ? Confound  it,  you  sent  for 
me  to  make  a monkey  of  me.  What  would  you 
think  of  a man  who  ate  cyanide  of  mercury  every 

6 


SCARED  TO  LIFE 


morning  and  sent  for  me  to  give  him  some  medi- 
cine that  would  prolong  his  life  ?” 

“You  cannot  give  me  any  treatment  — is  that 


it? 


>> 


“Yes,  I can.  I can  put  the  whole  pharma- 
copoeia into  one  word  and  give  it  to  you,  but  you 
will  not  take  it.  It's  bitter,  but  it  might  cure 
you.” 

“ Give  it  to  me.” 

“ Stop.” 

“ Do  you  mean  give  up  business  ? ” 

“ Give  up  everything.  Stop  living  for  a year, 
and  live.  If  you  don't  want  to  die,  let  Wall 
Street  die.  You  cannot  both  live  together.” 
“Am  I to  understand  that  I can  avert  an 
organic  disaster  with  care  ? ” 

“ No.  You  are  bringing  it  on  with  care. 
Stop  caring.  Go  away.  Forget  — and  you  will 
lift  yourself  by  your  waistband  out  of  an  early 
grave.  Where’s  that  boy  of  yours  ? ” 

“ He  is  at  school.” 

“ School  at  seven  ! Atrocious  ! So,  you  had 
to  smash  him,  too.” 

“ I couldn’t  very  well  take  care  of  him  when 
his  mother  died,  so  I put  him  in  a comfortable 
private  home  school.” 

“ When  did  you  see  him  ? ” 

I had  to  think.  “ Three  or  four  weeks  ago.” 

“ Great  Scott  — that  fine  little  fellow  handed 
over  to  orphanage  to  accommodate  Wall  Street!” 
“ Oh,  you  mistake.  I am  working  for  his 
future.” 


7 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

<c  By  destroying  your  own.  That’s  the  devil’s 
logic.” 

This  treatment  resulted  somewhat  as  a counter- 
irritant  will.  The  Doctor  had  cuffed  me  profes- 
sionally. When  he  went  away  I began  to  resent 
it.  Besides,  the  farther  I receded  from  the  original 
point  of  shock,  the  less  dangerous  it  appeared  to 
be,  and  the  events  that  had  been  momentarily 
suspended  began  to  press  up  again.  Telegrams, 
special  messengers,  urgent  calls,  came  out  of  the 
world  to  which  I belonged.  It  is  not  easy  to  step 
outside  of  a crisis  when  you  are  a part  of  it.  A 
man  does  not  suddenly  resolve  to  become  medita- 
tive in  a mob.  I had  sufficient  resolution  to  back 
out  of  a dinner  party  and  send  word  to  the  office 
that  I would  not  be  down  for  a day  or  two.  I 
was  already  compromising.  I would  slack  up  for 
a few  days,  and  then  go  at  it  again  more  guardedly. 
This  in  effect  was  — to  use  Wendell  Phillips’s 
phrase  — a weak  determination  not  to  commit 
suicide,  but  to  jump  only  half  way  down  Niagara. 

To  be  absolutely  candid,  neither  physical  warn- 
ing nor  medical  advice  would  have  broken  the 
nexus  of  my  life  at  that  time,  but  the  Doctor  had 
dropped  one  bit  of  acid  into  his  advice  that  was  to 
eat  away  the  chain  that  I could  not  break.  That 
word  “orphanage”  laid  hold  of  some  part  of  my 
system  with  a rankling  persistency.  It  was  as  if 
the  Doctor  had  left  his  scalpel  sticking  in  my  soul. 
“ Where  is  that  boy  ? ” kept  tolling  in  me  like  a 
deep,  questioning  bell. 

The  next  morning  I was  again  flying  up  town 

8 


SCARED  TO  LIFE 


in  a cab.  I arrived  at  a shabby  genteel  home  un- 
expectedly. The  woman  who  let  me  in  intimated 
very  plainly  by  her  manner  that  it  was  irregular 
to  come  at  that  hour.  She  ought  to  have  been 
forewarned.  I brushed  her  away  with  my  sudden 
fatherhood.  “ He  was  in  the  class  room,”  she  said, 
with  an  air  of  finality,  as  if  the  class  room  were  a 
bar  to  fathers.  But  she  must  have  seen  in  my 
face  some  gleams  of  a sudden  and  irresistible 
voracity  that  would  be  dangerous  to  tamper  with, 
for  she  led  the  way  with  a grim  and  silent  protest, 
and  I suddenly  saw  eight  or  ten  little  fellows  in  a 
row  on  a bench.  It  seemed  to  me  then  that  I 
had  never  before  encountered  such  a petrifaction 
of  all  the  natural  functions  of  childhood.  The 
children  appeared  to  be  in  some  kind  of  a vise, 
meant  to  squeeze  them  into  indistinguishable  uni- 
formity. But,  as  my  eye  ran  along  that  human 
gamut,  it  met  one  inscrutable  note  that  made  every 
string  in  me  vibrate.  One  of  the  faces  was  mine. 
The  moment  it  saw  me,  the  big,  blue  eyes  opened 
wide,  a pair  of  lips  involuntarily  cried,  <c  Papa,” 
and  a pair  of  little  arms  seemed  to  stretch  across 
the  space  and  clutch  at  me  all  over. 

I took  him  away  in  spite  of  protests,  and  when 
the  matron  asked  me  with  an  utterly  unanswera- 
ble superiority  what  I was  going  to  do  with  him, 
I crushed  her  with  a bravado  that  could  only 
come  out  of  Wall  Street.  “ We  are  going  to 
play  pinochle,”  I said. 

He  and  I had  the  flat  to  ourselves  that  night. 
I never  had  so  much  fun  in  my  life.  They  must 

9 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

have  heard  us  on  the  floor  below  and  wondered. 
After  he  had  said  his  prayers  in  his  night-gown, 
he  asked  me  if  I wasn’t  going  to  say  mine,  and 
I think  I blushed.  Just  before  he  went  to  sleep, 
he  put  his  arm  softly  over  to  see  if  I was  there, 
and  then  said  tremulously,  “ Papa,  are  you  going 
away  in  the  morning  ? ” I turned  over,  kissed 
him  on  the  cheek,  and  with  that  utter  imbecility 
that  is  pristine,  I said,  £C  Charlie,  if  you  love  me 
as  I love  you,  no  knife  can  cut  our  love  in  two.” 


10 


CHAPTER  II 

LIVING  BACKWARDS 

WHEN  I made  up  my  mind  to  back  out 
of  my  environment,  I encountered  some 
poignant  experiences  which  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  narrate  in  detail.  It  is  enough  if  I can 
make  clear  the  resultant  lesson  of  it  all.  Several 
impulses  and  desires,  deep  embedded,  combined 
to  make  me  step  clean  out  of  one  habitat  into  an- 
other, and  having  taken  the  step,  I had  too  much 
obduracy  of  character  to  go  back.  You  have 
heard  of  men  turning  a new  leaf.  In  my  case  it 
was  no  mere  ornamental  figure  of  speech.  If  you 
will  permit  me  to  use  a better  phrase,  — not  irrev- 
erently, — I was  born  again,  and  like  all  births  it 
had  its  pangs,  but  I emerged  into  a new  world. 
That  is  the  interesting  part  of  it.  The  Doctor 
had  declared  that  I could  not  lift  myself  by  my 
own  waistband,  and  therefore  must  die.  I ob- 
jected to  dying.  Somehow  it  hurt  me  to  be 
knocked  down  in  that  manner,  and  when  I looked 


ii 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

at  my  boy,  only  eight  years  old,  the  idiotic  idea 
occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  he  might  help  me 
to  lift  myself  by  my  own  waistband. 

One  morning  in  late  May  we  found  ourselves, 
with  our  bridges  burnt,  standing  with  a yellow 
dog  in  front  of  a weather-beaten  hut  one  hundred 
miles  from  Wall  Street.  It  was  so  early  that  I 
could  feel  the  wet  wire  grass  through  my  thin 
shoes.  I looked  at  the  dilapidated  house  and 
wondered  at  my  temerity.  Then  the  two  fellows 
who  are  always  squabbling  in  one’s  subconscious- 
ness began  their  debate. 

“ So,”  says  one  of  them  — a kind  of  Mephisto 

— “you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  live  in  that 
hovel,  have  you  ? Perhaps  you  think  you  were 
built  for  it.” 

“ No,”  says  the  other  fellow,  “ I’m  going  to  be 
rebuilt  for  it.” 

“ Well,  it’s  a mediaeval  funk— blank  cowardice 

— crass  sentimentalism.  You  cannot  change  your 
skin  by  changing  your  geography.  You  will  com- 
mit suicide  before  the  year  is  out.” 

“ All  right,”  said  the  other,  setting  his  teeth, 
<c  suicide  it  must  be  then.  I’ve  got  a little  acro- 
batic feat  to  perform  just  to  prove  to  a doctor  that 
somewhere  in  the  past  I had  a Puritan  ancestor 
who  died  on  the  church  steps  with  a gun  in  one 
hand  and  a hymn-book  in  the  other.  I can  live 
on  raw  turnips  and  spring  water  when  my  mind 
is  made  up.” 

This  was  the  bravado  of  the  will,  and  even 
while  it  was  flourishing  I was  conscious  that  I 


THE  BIG  FIREPLACE  AT  THE  END  OF  THE  ROOM  HAD  SOME  FAGGOTS  PILED  READY  FOR  LIGHTING. 


LIVING  BACKWARDS 


would  give  the  hovel  and  the  two  big  boxes  that 
had  been  set  down  at  its  door  for  a cocktail. 

I asked  the  two  men  who  had  driven  us  and 
the  boxes  up  where  I could  get  some  ice  and  a 
lemon.  They  looked  at  each  other  as  if  I had 
asked  them  for  a French  menu.  “Ice?”  said  one 
of  them.  “You  might  git  some  at  the  butcher’s 
in  Spelldown.  It’s  four  miles  and  a half.  There’s 
a spring  in  the  medder  yonder,  but  the  lemon 
crop  ain’t  very  good  this  year.” 

“ That’s  so,”  said  his  companion,  wiping  his 
face  with  his  shirt-sleeves,  “ the  potato  bugs  hurt 
the  young  lemons  awfully  last  season.” 

I learned  sooner  or  later  that  this  kind  of  irony 
was  in  the  air  like  the  smell  of  the  skunk  cabbage. 
The  inside  of  the  hovel  was  not  so  dilapidated 
after  all.  There  were  only  two  rooms  and  a 
woodshed.  But  it  was  clean  and  bright  and 
sweet,  and  scented  airs  wandered  through  it.  A 
phcebe-bird  sat  on  the  sill  of  a low  window  and 
intimated  that  I was  impertinent.  Everything 
was  in  humble  and  homely  shipshape  order. 
There  were  two  shakedowns,  a pine  table,  camp- 
chairs,  a Quaker  rocker,  some  trunks,  a little 
book-shelf,  a dresser  with  thick  cups  and  saucers 
on  it,  and  a small  writing-table  under  the  window, 
over  which  a chintz  curtain  was  flapping  lazily. 
The  big  fireplace  at  the  end  of  the  room  had 
some  faggots  piled  ready  for  lighting. 

I sat  down  at  the  window,  and  surveying  the 
homely  surroundings,  thought  of  my  bachelor 
quarters  in  the  city,  and  had  to  press  my  hand 

*3 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

on  my  heart  to  restrain  my  heroism.  The  drone 
of  the  carpenter  bee  at  the  window  and  the  voice 
of  Charlie  on  the  wire  grass  with  the  yellow  dog, 
were  the  only  sounds,  save  the  occasional  quick 
rat-a-tat  of  a woodpecker  somewhere.  I turned 
the  last  batch  of  letters  that  I had  brought  with 
me  out  of  my  breast  pocket.  How  odd  they 
looked  in  that  place  with  their  club  monograms 
and  hotel  imprints.  Some  of  them  were  super- 
scribed “ Immediate”  and  a Personal”  and  “Wait 
for  answer.”  Two  or  three  of  them  were  small 
and  mauve  and  probably  scented.  I had  not 
opened  any  of  them,  for  I knew  very  well  what 
was  in  them,  and  I was  not  going  to  weaken  then. 
I pushed  them  aside  and  tried  to  get  my  bearings. 
Did  I know  where  I was?  Well  — rather.  The 
nearest  house  was  a mile  across  the  hill  and  valley 
to  the  northeast.  It  was  somebody’s  deserted 
“ Folly.”  The  old  man  raised  hay  and  butter- 
milk, and  had  a niece  named  Griselle.  She  never 
heard  of  me  until  her  uncle  told  her  that  a strange 
gentleman  with  his  boy  had  hired  the  cabin  for  a 
year  on  account  of  his  health,  and  she  came  over 
and  put  things  to  rights.  I never  told  her  nor 
Charlie  that  I had  been  there  before  — it  was 
nearly  ten  years  before.  What  was  the  use  ? 
They  would  not  have  understood.  I had  boarded 
in  the  cc  Folly  ” for  a month.  Somehow  that 
romantic  runaway  may  have  led  to  this,  but 
Charlie  couldn’t  understand  that,  and  it  would 
be  foolish  to  tell  him  that  one  day  his  mother 
and  I were  caught  in  a shower  and  took  refuge 

14 


BESIDES,  JUST  NOW  HE  WAS  CARING  MORE  FOR  THAT  YELLOW  DOG  THAN  FOR  ANYTHING  ELSE  ON  EARTH. 


LIVING  BACKWARDS 


in  this  hovel,  and  ate  strawberries  and  cream  and 
shortcake,  there  where  that  pine  table  stood,  while 
the  hail  was  pattering  on  the  roof.  No,  I can  be 
a Rousseau  to  you,  curious  reader,  but  not  to 
Charlie.  It  is  difficult  to  be  as  candid  as  Rous- 
seau without  being  as  objectionable.  Charlie 
could  not  understand  if  I told  him  that  the  ghost 
of  an  old  sweetheart  had  come  back  again  with 
me  to  the  hovel  and  was  going  to  eat  strawberries 
and  cream  again  at  that  same  table. 

Besides,  just  now  he  was  caring  more  for  that 
yellow  dog  than  for  anything  else  on  earth,  or 
perhaps  in  heaven,  for  that  matter.  That  cur  was 
the  only  living  thing  that  welcomed  us  when  we 
came  to  the  station  at  Spelldown.  She  seemed 
to  sniff  our  predetermined  vagabondage,  and 
began  to  wag  a most  familiar  reciprocity,  that 
said,  “ I am  with  you,  boys.”  So  audaciously 
did  she  claim  a prior  acquaintance  with  Charlie 
in  some  other  state  of  existence,  that  I gave  a 
boy  a dollar  for  her,  and  she  wig-wagged  with 
boisterous  and  unmistakable  manumission  all  the 
way  up  to  our  destination.  Before  she  had  got 
there  Charlie  had  named  her  cc  Samson  ” with 
reference  to  some  dog  ideal  in  his  story-book, 
and  a day  or  two  later  I had  to  correct  it,  accord- 
ing to  the  facts,  there  being  indubitable  evidence 
that  the  cur  did  not  belong  to  the  Samsonian 
gender.  So  I suggested  as  more  appropriate  to 
her  character  the  name  of  “ Delilah,”  and  Charlie, 
with  the  felicity  of  blue-pencil  infancy,  instantly 
converted  it  into  “ Lilah  ” for  all  time. 

*5 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

I pulled  the  Quaker  rocker  outside  the  door, 
lit  my  brier-wood  pipe,  and  tried  to  make  myself 
believe  that  I felt  like  Cowper’s  Selkirk.  But  the 
attempt  was  frustrated  by  the  arrival  of  Griselle. 
She  came  over  the  northeast  pasture  hill,  in 
starched  muslin,  and  brought  Gabe  Hotchkiss 
with  her.  Gabe  was  her  uncle  — a weazened  Rip 
Van  Winkle,  who  would  split  my  wood,  haul  my 
supplies  once  a week,  and,  if  I said  so,  sleep  in 
my  woodshed,  and  fetch  me  some  trout  and  dace 
occasionally  from  the  Cluny  milldam,  between 
my  cottage  and  the  “ Folly.”  Against  this  prac- 
tical and  case-hardened  rustic  Griselle  was  like  a 
musk  pink  against  a stone  heap.  I wanted  to 
call  her  Phyllis,  and  I believe  I have  mentioned 
her  in  my  diary  as  “ Buttermilk  and  Daisies.” 
But  I soon  found  out  that  she  had  taught  dis- 
trict school  in  winter  and  played  the  melodeon 
in  the  Reformed  Church  somewhere.  She  could 
come  over  and  get  Charlie’s  breakfast  in  the 
morning.  Charlie’s  — mark  that.  Of  course 
Charlie  and  I were  going  to  run  two  tables. 
Having  settled  this,  she  abandoned  me  to  Gabe, 
and  went  out  on  the  wire  grass  to  make  Charlie’s 
acquaintance. 

Finally  she  insisted  on  taking  Charlie  over  to 
the  “ Folly  ” and  showing  him  the  milldam.  In  a 
moment  of  weakness  I consented,  and  was  then 
thrown  upon  my  own  resources  for  the  rest  of  the 
day.  I tried  to  fill  the  time  out  with  petty  industry. 
I got  out  the  few  books  and  arranged  them  on 
the  shelf ; tacked  up  the  photograph  of  Charlie’s 

16 


LIVING  BACKWARDS 


mother  over  the  writing-table ; tried  on  a blue 
flannel  shirt  and  a pair  of  baseball  shoes,  whistling 
an  air  from  that  last  opera  of  Delibes’s.  I took 
a walk  and  tried  to  find  the  spring  — came  back 
without  finding  it ; took  down  the  photograph 
and  put  it  up  in  another  place ; rearranged  the 
books ; swung  a hammock,  and  cut  mv  thumb. 
It  was  the  longest  day  I ever  spent  in  my  life. 
Finally  it  occurred  to  me  suddenly  that  something 
was  liable  to  happen  to  Charlie.  Wasn’t  there 
a milldam  ? Didn’t  I know  that  girls  only 
thought  of  themselves  ? Good  heavens,  the 
Hotchkisses  might  be  kidnappers.  The  air  began 
to  get  blue,  and  I snatched  a stick  and  set  out 
hurriedly  on  a rescue  — to  meet  Griselle  and 
Charlie  coming  over  the  pasture-field,  hand  in 
hand,  beautifully  silhouetted  against  the  sky,  and 
Lilah  wig-wagging  behind — all  of  them  consum- 
mately unconcerned,  and  Charlie  crammed  with 
new  experiences,  in  which  milldam  was  most  con- 
spicuous. Griselle  passed  him  over  in  the  most 
uneventful  way  and  returned  home. 

Then  Charlie  and  I got  our  supper.  If  I 
remember  correctly,  we  had  bologna  sausage, 
cheese,  crackers,  and  tea,  and  would  have  had 
sardines  if  I had  known  where  that  infernal 
can-opener  was.  It  was  about  the  time  of 
day  that  I usually  took  steak  a la  Bordelaise, 
or  a bird,  with  several  entrees  and  a pint  of 
dry  wine.  I admired  my  nerve  as  I ate  the 
bologna,  and  wondered  how  long  I could  keep 
this  up. 


17 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

After  supper  I proposed  that  we  sit  outside 
our  door  and  have  a talk  while  I smoked  my 
pipe.  We  could  see  the  sun  go  down  through 
the  trees.  The  conversation  was  carried  on,  I 
must  admit,  mainly  by  Charlie.  His  imagination 
had  been  inflamed  by  the  milldam.  “ It  was 
only  such  a little  ways  off,  too.” 

“ If  you  go  there  alone,  I’ll  skin  you,”  I said. 

“ Oh,  but  it’s  full  of  big  white  flowers.” 

“They’re  rank  poison  — -sure  death  to  boys  if 
they  haven’t  got  some  one  with  them.” 

This  was  a fine  parental  beginning.  I tried  to 
steer  the  conversation  into  other  channels.  I had 
a story  pat  of  a boy  who  got  himself  drowned  by 
being  alone  and  nobody  to  pull  him  out.  I told 
it  pathetically,  and  wound  it  up  just  as  the  sun 
dropped  behind  the  hill.  There  was  no  response. 
I looked  round.  Charlie  had  gone  down  with 
the  sun.  He  was  asleep.  I picked  him  up  and 
carried  him  in.  He  was  “ dead  beat,”  as  we 
say. 

“You’re  a nice  companion,”  I growled,  as  he 
climbed  into  his  shakedown,  “ to  keep  me  com- 
pany. What  am  I going  to  do  with  myself  till 
twelve  o’clock  ? ” 

“ Good  night,  papa,”  he  said  with  inimitable 
indifference. 

To  be  left  alone  in  this  manner  was  hideous. 
The  very  stillness  was  asphyxiating  to  the  ear. 
Nothing  but  a wailing  whippoorwill  cut  into  the 
hush  of  it.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  was 
frightened  at  the  stillness.  The  moth  finally  put 

1 8 


LIVING  BACKWARDS 


my  candle  out.  Then  I went  outside,  and  walked 
up  and  down  like  a sentry,  and  tried  to  picture 
to  myself  what  the  gay  world  was  doing  at  that 
lively  hour.  Well  — Tillotson  was  playing  bill- 
iards at  the  University  Club  ; Bannister  would  be 
eating  a late  dinner  with  the  Farnsworth,  and  she 
would  ask  him  between  sips,  “What  do  you  sup- 
pose ever  became  of  your  friend  ? ” and  Bannister 
would  whistle  me  down  the  wind  lightly,  saying, 
“ Oh,  his  accounts  were  all  right.  He  slipped 
off  to  Europe  for  his  health.”  And  that  would 
dispose  of  me.  But  the  Farnsworth’s  little  mauve 
letter  was  lying  in  there  on  the  table  under  the 
chintz  curtain.  Confound  her ! I had  not 
opened  it.  Oh,  I’ve  got  some  sand  — blast  that 
whippoorwill ! It  must  have  been  twelve  o’clock 
when  I concluded  to  try  the  bed,  and  it  was  cer- 
tainly two  o’clock  in  the  morning  before  I went 
to  sleep.  And  then  up  rose  Griselle,  with  her 
muslin.  She  must  have  been  hanging  around 
the  place  all  night,  for  I could  swear  that  no 
sooner  had  I got  my  eyes  closed  than  she  began 
to  clatter  in  the  kitchen.  She  even  went  so  far  as 
to  sing  “ The  Sweet  By  and  By.”  Just  as  I had 
the  two  pillows  muffled  round  my  ears,  Charlie 
was  pulling  at  my  arm.  “ Papa,  get  up  — get  up. 
Griselle  wants  to  get  the  breakfast.” 

I must  have  growled  like  the  captain  of  a tug, 
but  it  was  six  o’clock,  and  it  slowly  dawned  upon 
me  that  that  young  ruffian  had  been  up  an  hour. 
I went  out  in  the  shed  and  reprimanded  myself 
quietly.  “ How  do  you  like  it  ? ” I said,  as  I 

i9 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

looked  for  the  spring  water.  “ You  haven't  got 
so  much  sand  at  this  hour  of  the  day,  have  you  ? ” 
I don’t  think  I answered  myself.  If  I did  I made 
no  record  of  it,  but  I did  try  to  explain  to  Griselle 
why  I couldn’t  eat  her  broiled  chicken  and  fresh 
eggs  at  that  time  in  the  morning.  And  she  said. 
Oh,  I’d  come  to  it  after  I got  rested. 

“ Rested  ? Do  I look  tired  ? ” 

“ I guess  you’re  tired  on  the  wrong  side,”  she 
said.  “ When  you  get  tired  on  . the  right  side, 
you’ll  eat  like  a Cheshire  shoat.” 

This  jarred  a little,  but  it  was  prophecy.  About 
half-past  eleven  I remarked  to  Charlie,  “ My 
kingdom  for  six  small  oysters  on  the  half  shell,” 
and  he  said,  “ Let’s  go  in  and  open  the  sardine- 
box.” 

And  we  did. 

It  was  not  an  easy  job  that  I had  taken  upon 
myself  to  reconstruct  my  life.  I don’t  think  I real- 
ized the  innate  difficulties  of  it  until  I had  burned 
my  bridges.  It  is  all  very  well  and  quite  natu- 
ral for  us  to  talk  about  nature  and  obedience  and 
simple  living  if  we  are  sportsmen,  or  naturalists, 
or  even  poets.  But  if  one  is  a stock-broker,  who 
has  been  communing  with  the  money  market  for 
eight  years,  it  comes  pretty  tough  at  first.  Noth- 
ing but  the  grim  alternative  of  sudden  death  could 
have  made  me  so  determined  a bridge-burner. 
But  I must  acknowledge  that  during  the  first 
week  of  my  voluntary  exile  in  the  far-away  Hotch- 
kiss woods  I had  to  contemplate  my  eight-year- 
old  son  and  heir  with  deadly  concentration  of 

20 


LIVING  BACKWARDS 


purpose  in  order  to  understand  that  sudden  death 
was  not  altogether  preferable  to  slow  extinction 
in  utter  solitude. 

The  Doctor  had  used  the  lad  as  a sort  of  emo- 
tional lever,  but  I soon  found  out  that  the  lad 
himself  was  as  rigid  in  his  views  of  life  as  the 
moral  law.  He  never  bent  a single  natural 
impulse  to  accommodate  me.  I was  to  bend  all 
my  case-hardened  habits  to  accommodate  him.  He 
expected  me  to  go  to  bed  at  eight  o’clock  and  to 
get  up  at  five.  He  had  in  his  bones  some  kind 
of  thermometrical  arrangement  with  the  sun.  He 
insisted  that  a breakfast  at  seven  o’clock  was  the 
proper  thing,  and  he  carried  this  obduracy  so  far 
that  he  serenely  set  up  oatmeal  and  milk  as  a suf- 
ficient inducement.  When  I told  him  that  we 
were  going  to  play  Robinson  Crusoe  in  the  woods 
for  a year,  he  complacently  accepted  it  with  the 
immediate  arrangement  that  I was  to  be  the  man 
Friday. 

The  fact  is  I never  suspected  how  consum- 
mately I had  drifted  into  an  artificial  and  selfish 
disregard  of  the  normal  mean  of  things  until  I 
began  to  associate  on  intimate  terms  with  my 
own  offspring.  After  a week  of  it  I appealed  to 
the  Doctor  by  mail.  “ What  am  I going  to  do 
to  occupy  my  mind  ? ” 

“ Don’t  occupy  it,”  he  wrote  back.  “ What 
did  you  climb  out  of  the  cerebral  maelstrom  for  ? 
Stop  thinking  for  a while.  Play.  Become  an 
animal  — and  watch  Charlie.” 

“ Is  thy  servant  then  a dog  ? ” I inquired. 

21 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

“Yes,”  he  replied,  “or  some  other  more  igno- 
ble animal.  Perhaps  Wall  Street  has  inoculated 
you  with  the  notion  that  you  belong  to  the  min- 
eral or  vegetable  kingdom.  It’s  a great  shame. 
You  are  indubitably  and  necessarily  half  animal. 
Take  my  advice,  stay  in  your  kennel  and  wag 
your  tail.” 

Once  again  I wrote  him  to  say  : “ I think  you 
have  overestimated  Charlie’s  abilities  as  a guide. 
He  hasn’t  quite  understood  my  case  from  the 
first.” 

Then  I got  this  short  and  sharp  rejoinder  : “ But 
I understand  your  case,  believe  me.  There  are 
some  mountains  in  our  early  vistas,  and  the  chil- 
dren get  nearer  their  summits  in  their  play  than 
we  ever  get  with  our  pack-mules.” 

If  I had  not  had  a profound  respect  for  this 
gifted  old  curmudgeon’s  knowledge,  and  a sneak- 
ing fear  that  he  and  sudden  death  had  an  under- 
standing, I think  I should  have  slipped  away  in 
the  most  pusillanimous  manner  at  the  end  of  the 
first  week.  As  it  was,  I girded  my  loins  and  stood 
up  to  the  extraordinary  job  of  lifting  myself  by 
my  own  waistband.  But  to  be  utterly  frank,  now 
that  it  is  all  over,  the  only  thing  I did  was  to 
hang  on  like  grim  death,  and  let  Charlie  do  the 
rest. 

I must  have  looked  very  idiotic  sitting  there 
trying  to  coax  myself  into  the  belief  that  I was 
enjoying  an  Arcadian  existence  and  had  got  back 
to  the  primitive  and  joyous  simplicity  of  life, 
which  was  a most  preposterous  conclusion  ; for  if 

22 


LIVING  BACKWARDS 


I had  reached  that  condition,  I would  have  gone 
to  sleep  like  Charlie,  and  not  thought  about  it  at 
all.  But  the  man  who  has  for  years  packed  all 
his  excitement,  his  society,  and  his  indulgences 
into  his  nights  is  not  going  to  wrap  the  drapery 
of  his  couch  about  him  like  a proper  yokel  at 
eight  o’clock,  and  lie  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 
Night,  as  I knew  her,  was  a luxurious  Ethiope, 
who  not  only  “wore  so  many  jewels  on  her  face 
you  could  not  see  ’twas  black,”  but  carried  a good 
many  dulcimers  in  her  hand.  The  night  that  I 
had  come  into  was  undoubtedly  the  original  insti- 
tution, made  to  sleep  in.  I made  up  my  mind 
that  it  was  absolutely  barren  of  anything  else,  and 
then  a June  bug  hit  me,  biff,  in  the  forehead,  and 
fell  over  dead  on  the  Doctor’s  letter,  as  if  he  had 
given  up  his  life  in  the  attempt  to  prove  me  a 
liar.  All  that  I could  see  of  the  night  was  a 
square,  velvety  black  space  where  the  window 
was.  It  was  fretted  by  some  dim  flying  wings 
that  microscopically  glistened  in  the  vagrant  star- 
light, like  tiny  threads  woven  into  the  blackness. 
Out  of  this  mystery  of  the  dark  crept  all  kinds 
of  shadow  sounds  and  occult  breathings.  I could 
hear  the  dog  barks  dying  off  in  a vanishing  per- 
spective, but  marking  the  dim  distances  and  the 
solitude  with  their  grading  accents.  Along  the 
ground  at  regular  intervals  came  the  throb  of  a 
bass  viol  as  some  bullfrog  twanged  his  string  over 
at  the  milldam. 

A man  cannot  fool  with  night  when  she  is  in 
puris  naturalibus . It  is  only  the  wanton  night 

23 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

that  he  has  himself  made  that  will  tolerate  his 
impertinence.  While  I sat  there  thinking  of 
financial  combinations  that  had  been  cut  short, 
and  saying  to  myself,  “ The  bulls  are  up  in  Ber- 
lin and  the  Bourse  is  bellowing,”  another  June 
bug  hit  me  on  the  nose  and  fell  over  on  his  back 
on  the  table.  Several  more  came  in,  bombarded 
my  lamp-stand,  and  fell  dead.  There  was  quite 
a row  of  them  on  the  Doctor’s  letter  with  their 
claws  up.  Harmless,  jolly  little  imps  of  the 
darkness,  they  seemed  at  that  moment  to  be 
punctuating  the  night’s  contempt  for  me.  They 
recalled  to  me  a vanished  estate  when  they  and  I 
were  on  better  terms.  All  at  once  the  name 
came  back  through  the  window  like  the  bug  him- 
self— Phyllopertha  horticola.  It  was  as  plain  as 
some  of  the  adages  in  my  old  copy-book,  and 
along  with  it  my  juvenile  translation  — “leaf- 
eating,  garden-haunting  acrobat.”  Always  he 
came  with  the  early  roses  and  the  first  hot,  dry 
spell.  And  always  without  steering  apparatus,  he 
ran  foul  of  everything,  and  always  got  the  worst 
of  it.  Now,  either  he  or  I was  an  impertinence. 
Night  with  these  winged  succubi  was  tedious.  I 
looked  at  Charlie.  His  head  was  on  his  arm. 
How  far  away  he  appeared  to  be.  Nothing  could 
annoy  him,  for  the  same  night  that  was  bombard- 
ing me  had  her  protective  arm  around  him.  I 
made  a memorandum  on  the  margin  of  the  Doc- 
tor’s letter.  “ Get  mosquito  netting,  and  send 
for  book  on  entomology.”  Then  I blew  the 
light  out  and  went  to  bed. 

24 


DOWN  WINDING  DUSTY  ROADS  AND  OVER  ANCIENT  STONE  FENCES. 


LIVING  BACKWARDS 


The  next  day  I stumbled  in  my  stupid  way 
backwards  into  the  new  life.  I took  a tin  pail 
and  called  to  Charlie.  “We  must  find  that 
spring,”  I said,  and  we  set  out  like  two  tramps 
through  the  jungle,  starting  a good  many  garru- 
lous chipmunks  and  seeing  the  occasional  flash 
of  a rabbit.  We  reached  a wooded  crest  toil- 
somely, and  I heard  the  far-away  toot  of  a loco- 
motive whistle.  The  white  clouds  were  sailing 
over  the  hazy  hills  in  the  east.  Everything  was 
slumberous  and  warm  and  restful.  Somewhere 
in  that  direction  there  was  social  life.  We  would 
walk  over  there  and  discover  it.  So  we  stowed 
our  pail  away  in  a clump  of  bushes  and  set  out 
on  a long  tramp  of  exploration  — down  winding 
dusty  roads  and  over  ancient  stone  fences,  new 
vistas  beguiling  us  on,  and  the  yellow  dog  keep- 
ing ahead  with  a beckoning  wag.  Visions  of  a 
cool  hamlet  with  the  railroad  running  through  it 
like  an  artery  from  a distant  heart ; a quaint 
little  station  with  jolly  old  telegraph  poles,  and 
some  nice  old  hostelry  where  we  could  get  a 
homely  dinner  and  hire  a horse  to  bring  us  back 
like  two  companionable  German  students. 

But  the  roads  were  elusive.  They  wound 
round  with  singular  want  of  purpose,  and  wan- 
dered down  to  deserted  mills  or  turned  in  at 
antique  graveyards,  and  sometimes  lost  them- 
selves in  grass-grown  clearings  where  I suspected 
there  had  once  been  camp-meetings.  So,  finally, 
when  the  sun  was  getting  vertically  hot  and  the 
dust  was  working  its  way  into  our  marrow,  we 

25 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

sat  down  on  a flat  stone  by  the  roadside,  and 
Charlie  mildly  suggested  that  it  was  time  to  eat. 
As  we  sat  there  a farmer  came  by  driving  a 
heavy  wagon  leisurely.  I hailed  him,  “ Say, 
neighbour,  how  far  is  the  town  ? ” 

“ What  town  ? ” 

“The  nearest  town.” 

“ Do  you  mean  Slocum  ? ” 

“Yes,  anything.” 

“ Well,  you  strike  the  Slocum  pike  about  three 
miles  over  yander,  and  that’ll  fetch  you  to  Slo- 
cum. It’s  about  eighteen  mile.” 

“H  ow  far  is  it  back  to  the  Hotchkiss  woods  ? ” 
He  turned  square  round  in  his  seat,  threw  one 
leg  over  the  other,  and  regarded  us  with  a new 
interest. 

“ Be  you  the  man  that’s  livin’  in  the  Hotch- 
kiss woods  ? ” 

I felt  instinctively  that  the  whole  county  had 
heard  of  me.  “ I be,”  I said.  “ I’ve  lost  my  way. 
I’ll  give  you  a dollar  to  haul  us  back.  Maybe 
you  could  tell  us  where  we  could  get  a lunch.” 
That  struck  him  as  funny.  “Lunch — hey? 
I s’pose  you  want  yer  dinner.  Wal,  it’s  an  hour 
past  dinner-time.” 

The  impropriety  of  being  hungry  when  the 
dinner  hour  was  past  had  never  struck  me  so 
forcibly  before.  Finally  he  “ allowed  ” that  we 
might  get  a hunk  of  bread  and  a dish  of  milk  at 
the  sawmill,  but  he  wasn’t  going  any  farther.  So 
we  climbed  in,  and  he  jolted  out  of  us  what  little 
resignation  we  had  left,  and  landed  us  in  a stable- 

26 


LIVING  BACKWARDS 


yard  of  the  sawmill,  where  there  was  a strong  and 
not  unpleasant  odour  of  hemlock  sawdust,  and 
where  we  were  speedily  the  objects  of  benevolent 
suspicion  to  several  persons  who  eyed  us  through 
the  green  blinds.  Nevertheless,  we  were  gra- 
ciously provided  with  hunks  of  bread  and  flowing 
bowls  of  milk  served  in  a summer  kitchen  by  a 
young  woman  in  freckles  whom  the  angels  called 
Pauline,  and  who  kept  her  eye  on  the  big  seal- 
ring on  my  little  finger,  so  that  when  she  refused 
to  let  me  pay  for  the  food  I gave  her  the  ring, 
coming  dangerously  near  calling  her  Pauline  and 
telling  her  that  my  grandfather  the  Doge  of  Ven- 
ice had  married  the  Adriatic  with  it. 

By  this  time  the  old  teamster,  who  had  been 
wrestling  with  himself  in  the  woodshed,  had  ob- 
tained a victory  over  his  conscience  and  concluded 
to  take  us  back  for  the  dollar.  As  the  life  was 
nearly  jolted  out  of  us  by  the  time  we  reached 
the  edge  of  the  Hotchkiss  woods,  we  told  him 
we  would  walk  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  then 
Charlie  and  I set  out  to  find  our  water  pail,  com- 
ing after  much  wandering  upon  a little  brook 
winding  down  through  the  valley  among  water- 
cress and  marsh-grasses  with  a pianissimo  gurgle. 
We  took  off  our  shoes  and  stockings,  and  plunged 
our  dust-covered  feet  into  its  cool  pockets,  and 
then  set  out  to  explore  it,  wading  along  its  channel. 

Presently  we  came  to  a grassy  basin  with  slop- 
ing green  banks  — a natural  saucer  that  must  at 
some  time  have  been  brimming,  but  now  was  left 
green  by  the  little  stream  that  wound  through 

2 7 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

its  centre.  I imitated  the  yellow  dog,  and  threw 
myself  on  the  slope,  but  Charlie  went  to  work 
promptly  to  dam  up  the  outlet.  I watched  his 
futile  hydraulics  with  lazy  interest  for  a few  mo- 
ments, and  then  went  and  helped  him  with  my 
superior  knowledge.  I rolled  the  stones  up  and 
piled  them,  while  he  stopped  the  interstices  with 
sod.  It  was  very  jolly  to  see  the  water  put  on 
an  air  of  timidity,  and  race  round  the  basin  as  if 
a little  frightened  and  looking  for  an  escape.  I 
tugged  at  heavier  stones,  digging  them  out  of  a 
neighbouring  bank  with  my  fingers  and  rolling 
them  over  with  incredible  toil.  Both  of  us 
worked  like  slaves.  There  was  something  fasci- 
nating in  the  gracious  conflict  of  the  water.  It 
was  like  romping  with  a handsome  hoydenish 
girl,  who  as  soon  as  you  caught  her  eluded  you 
with  bursts  of  laughter  and  little  gurgles  to  run 
off  defiantly  in  a new  direction.  All  at  once 
every  interest  in  the  world  suspended  itself  while 
that  basin  filled  up.  The  element  was  so  coy, 
so  gently  self-willed,  and  so  dashingly  and  musi- 
cally capricious,  that  the  desire  to  subdue  and 
tame  and  possess  it  stirred  some  instinctive  mas- 
culine impulse  even  in  Charlie.  I had  no  time 
to  think  about  it  then,  but  I can  see  now  that 
we  were  savage  Angelos  painting  a mural  picture. 
The  little  lake  rose  to  us  with  fairy  response.  It 
brimmed  the  basin,  took  on  frills  and  furbelows 
of  ripples,  flung  out  jubilates  as  it  leaped  over 
our  embankment.  It  snatched  sky  depths  from 
the  air,  and  planted  magical  willowy  islets  with 

28 


LIVING  BACKWARDS 


miniature  palms  and  ferns,  and  sailed  argosies  of 
leafy  galleons  round  about  — one  of  them  had  a 
luxuriant  caterpillar  curled  up  in  its  prow  like  a 
voluptuous  Cleopatra. 

It  was  not  until  the  lengthening  shadows  warned 
us,  that  we  set  out  for  our  cabin,  and  then  went 
to  work  without  any  didacticism  or  other  nonsense 
to  get  our  dinner.  I had  sand  under  my  finger- 
nails and  scratches  on  my  wrists,  but  I remarked 
to  Charlie,  “ Pot  cheese  and  strawberries  are  aw- 
fully good,  my  boy,”  and  he,  with  his  mouth  full, 
made  voracious  response,  “ Awfully,  ain’t  they  ? ” 

About  half-past  eight  o’clock  he  looked  at  me 
with  sleepy  surprise.  “ Are  you  going  to  bed, 
too?” 

“ Yes,”  I said,  “ I think  I’m  played  out.  Good- 
night.” 

“ Good-night,  papa.” 

I changed  the  memorandum  on  the  Doctor’s 
letter,  to  read  — “Send  for  book  on  hydraulics.” 
That’s  all  I remember  of  that  night. 

Having  imitated  Charlie  up  to  this  point,  there 
was  no  good  reason  why  I should  not  get  up  in 
the  morning  when  he  did.  But  he  was  ahead  of 
me,  and  cavorting  at  five  o’clock  with  the  yellow 
dog  on  the  wet  wire  grass.  I heard  his  invitation 
to  come  out  and  see  the  sun  rise,  a performance 
that  I thought  should  have  worn  its  novelty  off 
several  thousand  years  ago.  But  I took  a look  at 
it,  and  it  had  some  special  features  that  were  almost 
Persian  or  Hellenic.  His  Majesty  rose  over  a 
wooded  hill,  setting  fire  to  the  trees  in  a most 

2Q 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

riotous  manner,  and  to  my  disordered  imagination 
presenting  Aurora  in  'propria  persona  coming  down 
the  hill  with  a long  shadow  in  front  of  her  and  her 
chip  hat  burning  like  a crown  of  gold.  Of  course 
it  was  Griselle  coming  to  get  our  breakfast,  with  a 
pail  of  fresh  milk  in  her  hand  and  Gabe  Hotch- 
kiss trudging  on  behind.  Really  this  was  not  so 
bad,  but  the  disturbance  that  the  birds  made  as 
she  came  trippingly  down  the  slope,  struck  me  as 
being  a little  overdone  and  rather  like  the  claque 
at  a professional  matinee. 

Griselle  utterly  lacks  the  sense  of  proportion. 
I noticed  at  the  breakfast  table  that  Charlie  had  a 
new  doily  under  his  plate  with  a capital  C worked 
in  its  centre.  What  does  a child  of  his  age  care 
for  such  attentions  ? Griselle’ s talents  lack  adapta- 
bility. However,  I told  her,  with  much  pride,  of 
our  hydraulics,  and  explained  to  her  how  hard  we 
had  worked  to  make  a pool  of  water  in  which  we 
could  bathe. 

She  listened  respectfully  and  only  said  that  there 
was  already  a beautiful  little  pond  only  a few  steps 
below  that. 

I felt  crushed,  but  Charlie  rose  with  the  instinc- 
tive genius  of  his  age  to  th  situation. 

£C  But  we  didn’t  make  it,”  he  said. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  KILLING  OF  MARMION 

MY  doctor  having  succeeded  in  exiling  me 
and  my  eight-year-old  heir  to  what  he 
called  “ the  recuperative  wilderness,”  sent 
me  occasionally  a tart  reminder  of  the  wholesome- 
ness and  beauty  of  the  process  I was  undergoing. 
He  is  a delightful  megatherium  of  an  extinct 
school,  and  his  corrective  bellowings,  muffled  by 
distance,  afforded  me  much  amusement  in  my 
solitude,  and  doubtless  much  edifying  precept. 

“ Isolation,”  he  wrote  me,  “is  the  balm  of  life, 
and  it  is  better  for  the  constitution  than  the  spice 
of  variety.  If  I had  the  power,  I would  provide 
unpadded  cells  for  society  and  shove  the  gayest 
of  its  votaries  into  them  regularly,  and  turn  the 
key  on  them,  merely  to  increase  the  average  of 
human  life.  I am  more  and  more  convinced 
that  the  Frenchman  was  right  who  said  that 
progress  is  a disease,  and  eventually  society  will 
die  of  civilization.  It  is  fast  losing  the  power 

31 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

and  the  privilege  of  taking  breath.  The  path  to 
heaven  is  choked  with  late  dinners,  and  we  are 
forgetting  the  route. ” (The  old  pirate,  I’ll  wager 
he  was  writing  this  in  his  dress-coat,  while  the 
coupe  was  waiting  to  take  him  to  a banquet.)  “ I 
have  tried  my  best  to  introduce  a few  of  my  gifted 
patients  to  their  own  economies,  but  they  hadn’t 
time  to  know  themselves.  They  live  in  a mag- 
netic bath,  and  would  die  of  ennui  if  they  did  not 
feel  the  shock  of  things  going  by.  They  are  con- 
verting themselves  into  mere  conduits.  You  are 
the  first  fellow  I have  met  who,  coming  suddenly 
on  his  own  grave  yawning  before  him,  had  the 
pluck  to  say,  c No,  I thank  you,’  and  walk  off  in 
another  direction.  Bully  for  you.” 

It  was  by  such  artful  ticklings  of  my  pride  that 
the  old  ruffian  got  me  to  wear  my  chains  with  a 
sense  of  heroism.  I begged  for  some  news  very 
much  as  a morphine  patient  begs  for  his  drug. 
“ News,”  he  replied,  cc  there  is  nothing  new  in  the 
news.  Everything  seethes  and  roils  and  jostles 
and  bursts  just  as  it  did  when  you  were  here. 
Men  are  running  over  each  other  ruthlessly,  and 
dropping  out  of  sight  as  usual.  I don’t  know 
whether  you  remember  Calhoun — he  snapped 
his  E string  at  concert  pitch  last  week.  He  is 
pretty  well  forgotten  by  this  time.  He  was  so 
loaded  with  the  events  of  the  universe  that  his 
mind  snapped.  He  was  one  of  the  modern  idiots 
who  try  to  play  the  role  of  Atlas  with  nothing 
but  their  sensibilities.  Becky  Moultrie  you  knew. 
I saw  you  at  one  of  her  receptions  before  she  got 

32 


THE  KILLING  OF  MARMION 


to  be  a woman  of  affairs.  She  sent  for  me  last 
week;  said  she  had  a stitch  in  her  side  — would 
I drop  in  between  twelve  and  one.  Her  lunch 
time  was  the  only  opportunity  she  could  spare 
me.  £ I haven’t  time  to  be  sick,’  she  wrote  me  ; 
c I’ve  got  to  preside  at  the  meeting  to-morrow, 
and  my  time  is  all  laid  out  for  next  week.’  It 
was  three  days  before  I called,  for  I had  some- 
thing more  important  than  a stitch  in  the  side  to 
look  after.  But  she  was  a woman  of  neatness  and 
despatch.  When  I got  there,  she  was  laid  out. 
It  turned  out  to  be  a pleuratic  stitch,  and  the 
flowers  were  coming  in  as  I arrived.  This  uni- 
verse of  ours  is  constructed  on  the  stop-over  plan, 
and  there  is  no  use  in  kicking  against  it.  This 
through-train  business  doesn’t  at  all  agree  with 
the  tropical  swing  of  things,  which  provides  clois- 
ters and  still  nights  for  forgetting.  By  Jove,  old 
fellow,  there  wouldn’t  have  been  any  Renaissance 
if  there  hadn’t  been  Dark  Ages  first,  and  there 
wouldn’t  have  been  any  Pilgrim’s  Progress  if 
somebody  hadn’t  impounded  Bunyan.  I have 
never  read  it,  but  I understand  it’s  a great  work. 
Go  to,  every  man  can  be  his  own  Buddha,  inas- 
much as  he  has  a Bo-tree  in  his  soul  — if  he  will 
only  sit  down  under  it  at  times  and  be  mum  and 
get  acquainted  with  himself.” 

The  only  scent  of  the  city  in  this  philosophy 
was  sceptic  and  mortuary,  and  there  were  times 
when  I would  have  given  a good  deal  for  a sniff 
of  an  ailantus  tree  or  a whiff  of  consomme.  But 
all  the  same,  the  regimen  of  isolation  was  working 

33 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

a quiet  change  in  me.  I was  getting  on  better 
terms  with  myself  without  knowing  it. 

I recalled  a curiously  trivial  experience  I once 
had  in  the  city  similar  to  something  narrated  by 
a well-known  Frenchman.  I came  home  one 
night  from  a late  and  rather  riotous  supper  to  my 
room.  There  was  a full-length  mirror  in  it,  and 
as  I lit  my  gas  I got  a glimpse  of  myself,  flushed 
and  eager,  and  it  gave  me  a strange  start ; why,  I 
never  could  tell.  But  I regarded  myself  for  a 
moment  with  startled  awe.  That  ghost  of  iden- 
tity, forgotten  in  the  rush  of  impressions,  had 
caught  me  alone,  and  I must  have  shuddered  at 
myself.  It  was  nothing  more  than  what  Burns 
means  when  he  says,  u Oh,  wad  some  power  the 
giftie  gie  us  to  see  oursel’s  as  others  see  us.” 
But  it  was  an  analogue  of  that  old  superstition 
which  turns  the  mirror  to  the  wall  when  there  is 
a death  in  the  house,  for  no  one  knows  what 
uncanny  recognitions  may  flit  over  its  surface. 
There  is  always  a lurking  suspicion  that  some 
wraith  will  pass  and  taunt  us.  If  you  make  the 
inquiry,  you  will  And  that  no  belle  looks  in  her 
glass  when  she  comes  home  from,  the  revelry. 
The  confounded  thing  betrays  her.  It  reflects. 

How  to  get  on  comfortable  terms  with  your- 
self when  you  are  alone.  This  is  where  the 
Doctor’s  “ Charlie  philosophy,”  as  I called  it, 
came  in.  “The  best  way  to  contemplate  your- 
self,” he  wrote  me,  “ both  medicinally  and  mor- 
ally, is  through  parentage.  If  a man  would  see 
himself  through  a crystal  lens,  let  him  become 

34 


THE  KILLING  OF  MARMION 

the  father  of  a boy.  This  is  the  answer  to  that 
vain  prayer  of  experience — Oh,  that  I could 
live  my  life  over  again.  You  are  living  it  over 
again.  Watch  it.  While  you  have  been  throw- 
ing life  away  like  a heap  of  faggots,  it  has  been 
budding.  It  is  given  to  every  father  of  a boy  to 
be  his  own  incubus  or  his  own  good  angel.  If 
you  will  only  listen  to  your  primitive  self,  you 
will  hear  a Memnonian  voice  as  of  Nature  her- 
self. It  is  saying,  c It  is  better  to  have  one 
woman  who  believes  you  are  the  greatest  man  in 
the  world,  and  who  presents  you  with  a boy  who 
agrees  with  her,  than  it  is  to  be  the  greatest  man 
in  the  world/  Under  all  the  flashing  tumult 
and  flying  spume  of  a masterful  life  are  the  un- 
sullied depths  of  a creative  love  with  a Kyrie 
Eleison  in  it.  These  sub-depths  never  get  stirred 
by  the  life  you  have  been  leading.  You  must  sit 
a while  on  the  shore  of  this  sea  you  have  crossed, 
and  see  the  shallop  of  yourself  sporting  on  the 
beached  margent,  and  feel  how  helpless  you  are 
to  load  your  experience  into  it  without  swamping 
it.  By  and  by,  as  its  sails  get  stronger,  it  will 
venture  out  to  try  it  all  over  again.  No  charts 
or  compasses  of  yours  will  still  the  voices  of 
the  sirens,  and  no  silken  sails  that  you  can  fur- 
nish will  turn  him  from  the  magical  horizon. 
c The  isles  are  floating  on  a furlong  still  before/ 
Sit  still  a while  and  wait  on  the  sands.  Some 
day  he  will  sail  wearily  back,  looking  for  the  love 
that  he  never  found  elsewhere,  to  find  when  he 
returns,  mayhap,  only  the  runes  and  the  desolate 

35 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

water-marks.  Now  is  your  time,  old  fellow. 
Take  yourself  by  the  hand,  let  yourself  climb  up 
on  your  knees  and  enfold  you  in  protective  inno- 
cence and  reproach  you  with  warm  kisses.  There 
is  a millennial  touch  in  it,  believe  me,  for  you 
will  have  gotten  rid  of  your  carnivorous  egotism 
and  will  lie  down  with  the  lamb.  A touch  of 
prophecy,  too,  if  you  will  but  remember.  For 
is  it  not  written  that  c a little  child  shall  lead 
them  ’ ? ” 

Literally  to  renew  one's  youth,  according  to  the 
Doctor’s  prescription,  turned  out  to  be  a series  of 
gracious  surprises.  With  Charlie’s  hand  in  mine, 
I walked  into  some  mysteries  that  gladly  turned 
into  revelations.  We  took  up  with  some  toys  in 
our  imaginations,  and  let  the  real  fairies  into  our 
experiences,  so  that  little  curtains  were  lifted  all 
round  us  on  worlds  unrealized. 

One  hot  day  we  lay  flat  on  our  stomachs  under 
the  shade  of  a beech,  among  the  June  grass  and 
the  daisies,  peering  down  into  a magic  spectacle, 
and  yet  it  was  the  planet’s  history  in  petto.  The 
great  loom  of  the  universe  was  working  there 
with  miniature  continents.  It  was  a paleontologi- 
cal glimpse  of  the  pre-world,  as  if  Nature  kept 
ceaseless  memoranda  in  shorthand  of  all  her  mon- 
strous cycles  of  change.  There  were  the  equato- 
rial forests  and  the  prehistoric  monsters.  All  one 
had  to  do  was  to  get  the  inverse  scale  adapted,  and 
the  gigantic  fronds  waved  their  plumes,  and  stran- 
gling creepers  wound  in  tangles,  and  strange  forms 
of  life  wandered  through.  Green  leviathans 

36 


THE  KILLING  OF  MARMION 


crouched  in  corners  ; scurrying  termites  ran  hither 
and  thither.  A slow-moving  angleworm  drew  his 
ophidian  length  along  the  ancient  geologic  reaches, 
and  an  armoured  pterodactyl,  in  the  shape  of  a 
dragon-fly,  came  in  flaming  gorgeousness  like 
Apollyon,  and  picked  up  an  inhabitant  or  two. 
H ere  was  the  oldest  Nibelungen  Lied  going  on 
still,  with  real  dragons  amid  the  real  elements  in 
this  demiurgic  workshop.  Somehow  I fancy  that 
Wagner,  when  he  heard  the  eternal  melodies,  must 
have  been  lying  on  his  stomach  and  looking  at  the 
eternal  animate  forces. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  trying  to  get  these  child- 
like experiences  over  into  literature  ? One  must 
be  a Thoreau  to  do  it.  When  I interrogated  the 
mysteries  like  Hamlet,  there  was  Charlie  with  his 
round  implicit  face,  and  he  seemed  to  say  to  me, 
“ You  want  to  know  the  secret  of  Nature;  well, 
you  will  have  to  become  an  obedient  part  of  it, 
then  you  will  know,  but  you  will  lose  the  power 
and  the  desire  to  tell  it.”  That  boy  never  makes 
any  demonstration  over  a sunrise,  and  he  looks  at 
me  wonderingly  when  I begin  to  cavort  and  effuse. 
He  seems  to  be  more  familiar  with  the  processes 
than  I am.  They  are  spectacles  and  episodes  to 
me.  Heavens,  it  is  always  sunrise  with  him  ; why 
make  such  a fuss  over  it  ? And  that  is  always  the 
way  with  souls  that  live  close  to  Nature.  They 
take  it  as  a matter  of  course  because  they  are  a 
part  of  it,  and  that  is  where  Cooper  made  such  a 
mistake  with  his  Natty  Bumppo,  who  was  always 
going  about  attitudinizing  and  philosophizing 

37 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

about  that  which  such  a man  would  unconsciously 
appropriate.  Even  Poe,  with  all  his  genius,  failed 
to  lie  on  his  stomach  and  look  into  the  grasses  of 
the  field.  His  Raven  and  his  Annabel  Lee  are 
not  arrayed  like  one  of  these.  Fancy  him  writ- 
ing the  “ Flower  de  Luce”  of  Longfellow,  or  the 
“ Chambered  Nautilus”  of  Holmes,  or  the  “ Water 
Fowl  ” of  Bryant.  If  he  had  been  guided  by  the 
implicit  faith  of  the  boy,  he  would  have  taken  the 
advice  of  the  guide  in  Dante’s  “ Inferno  ” when 
he  came  to  some  of  the  horrors,  “ Look  and  pass 

yy 

on. 

Besides  all  other  experiences  there  was  one 
that  I cannot  help  making  some  mention  of.  It 
was  purely  psychic  and  confidential.  I found 
that  Charlie  was  more  or  less  of  a telephone  into 
eternity.  Do  not  misunderstand  me.  In  the 
breaks  of  our  existence  all  of  us  come  at  some 
time  to  that  tower  in  the  valley  of  desolation 
where  faith  has  run  a wire  out  into  the  shoreless 
leagues.  In  all  the  ages  man  has  come  there 
and  sent  his  messages  out  and  waited  for  answers. 
But  none  ever  came.  His  cry  was  for  “the  touch 
of  a vanished  hand  and  the  sound  of  a voice  that 
is  still.”  He  must  have  missed  the  right  instru- 
ment. I only  know  that  the  sound  of  the  voice 
came  plainly  back  to  me  at  times  ; that  I often 
felt  the  touch  of  the  vanished  hand,  and  some- 
thing out  of  eternity  looked  through  the  near-by 
windows  of  another  soul.  I have  listened  to  it 
in  playtime.  The  inflections,  the  ineffable  some- 
thing was  unmistakable,  so  that  the  voice  was 

38 


THE  KILLING  OF  MARMION 


not  utterly  still.  At  such  times  I was  in  danger 
of  getting  sentimental,  but  Griselle  would  come 
like  a vestal  and  fill  the  whole  woods  with  the 
incense  of  fried  ham,  and  Charlie  and  I,  like  two 
devotees,  would  walk  up  to  her  altar  and  perform 
our  duties  with  carnivorous  disregard  of  all  senti- 
ments. So  does  Nature,  when  she  has  her  way, 
preserve  and  equalize  her  antagonisms  and  con- 
vert even  fried  ham  into  ambrosia. 

I think  we  grew  quite  like  Brahmins  under 
our  mango  trees.  The  entire  population  of  the 
woods,  having  come  to  the  conclusion  that  we 
were  either  too  effeminate  or  too  orthodox  to  kill 
anything,  took  advantage  of  our  helplessness. 
The  squirrels  came  in  at  the  window  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  woodchucks  sat  on  their  haunches  on 
our  wire  grass.  The  rabbits  made  burrows  under 
our  hearthstone.  We  could  hear  them  scolding 
their  broods  at  night  and  bumping  their  heads 
against  the  flooring.  The  wood-turtles  crawled 
in  over  our  sill,  and  the  young  ones  dropped  out 
of  Charlie’s  pockets  at  night  when  he  hung  his 
trousers  over  a chair.  As  for  the  birds,  they 
reminded  me  of  the  gamin  in  Frankfort  Street. 
They  gathered  in  front  of  our  door  in  the  morn- 
ings and  waited  to  be  fed,  and  there  was  never  a 
night  that  a bat  or  two  did  not  manage  to  worm 
himself  into  our  confidence  when  we  were  trying 
to  sleep.  It  was  very  amusing  to  see  the  com- 
placent contempt  with  which  Lilah,  the  yellow 
dog,  and  Gabe  Hotchkiss  regarded  this  extraor- 
dinary tolerance.  But  I think  there  was  a quiet 

39 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

understanding  growing  up  between  these  two  and 
Charlie  that  it  was  high  time  the  killing  began. 
One  morning  I surprised  the  infant  in  the  wood- 
shed watching  Gabe  at  work  on  a hickory  limb. 
I was  informed  that  the  preparation  was  for  bosen- 
narrers.  My  lamb  had  passed  the  stone  age. 
“ What  on  earth  do  you  want  with  a bow  and 
arrows  ? ” I asked. 

cc  Want  to  kill  birds/’  he  said  triumphantly. 

And  there  was  the  old  Adam  beginning  to  peep 
out  in  my  Arcadia. 

The  Brahminical  growth  was  very  curious,  and 
I now  see  that  it  was  a part  of  the  general  obedi- 
ence to  which  I had  subjected  myself.  No  sooner 
had  I condescended  to  strip  off  my  aggressive 
individuality  for  a while,  and  put  myself  implicitly 
into  the  general  order,  and  drift  with  the  ordained 
arrangement,  than  the  general  order  came  inquir- 
ingly up  to  my  threshold  and  held  out  paws  and 
beaks  and  mandibles,  and  wagged  tails  as  if  it  car- 
ried in  its  poor,  half-developed  consciousness  a 
kindly  desire  to  renew  the  paradisaical  truce.  It 
is  astonishing  how  quickly  the  gossip  of  the 
woods  carries.  The  birds  told  the  squirrels  and 
the  squirrels  told  the  woodchucks  : “ That  man 
and  his  boy  in  the  Hotchkiss  hut  are  not  killers. 
It  is  incredible,  but  true,  they  haven’t  destroyed 
anything  since  they  arrived.” 

This  rumour  appeared  to  have  excited  the  curi- 
osity of  every  bug  and  beast  and  creeping  thing 
within  half  a mile  of  us.  There  was  one  adven- 
turous chipmunk  which,  having  heard  these  fly- 

40 


THE  KILLING  OF  MARMION 

ing  yarns  in  the  bush,  resolved  to  find  out  for 
himself,  and  being  of  a reckless  disposition,  he 
sat  on  our  window-ledge  one  morning,  and  pushed 
his  impertinence  over  the  table,  where  there  were 
some  peanuts  that  Charlie  had  left  scattered  about. 
We  stood  still  and  watched  him,  and  he  sat  up  and 
tasted  the  new  order  of  nut  with  a trembling  kind 
of  bravado,  carrying  one  of  them  away  with  him 
to  corroborate  his  story,  knowing  very  well  that 
he  would  be  called  a liar  if  there  was  a crow  about. 
He  must  have  made  up  a most  interesting  account, 
for  the  next  morning  several  of  them  came  and 
kept  at  a safe  distance  in  the  trees  to  watch  him 
go  through  the  performance  that  he  had  evidently 
boasted  of.  He  was  such  a pretty  picture  of  tiny 
electrical  energy,  and  so  incapable  of  interfering 
in  any  way  with  our  lax  duties,  that  I could  not 
find  it  in  my  heart  to  frighten  him.  That  fellow 
became  quite  familiar  and  visited  us  regularly,  and 
when  the  window  was  barred  with  mosquito  net- 
ting he  went  round  and  came  in  through  the 
kitchen  door,  always  being  rewarded  with  a few 
peanuts.  Having  at  some  time  called  him  a 
“jack  o’  lantern,”  with  reference  to  his  marvel- 
lous swiftness  of  motion,  Charlie  shortened  it 
into  “Jack,”  and  by  that  name  he  was  known  in 
the  family  as  long  as  we  stayed  in  the  hut.  Late 
in  the  fall  he  had  the  impudence  to  come  with  a 
companion  and  make  a nest  in  a corner  of  the 
woodshed,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  Gabe  Hotch- 
kiss, who  ranked  him  as  “ vermin,”  and  to  the 
standing  amazement  of  the  yellow  dog,  that  could 

4i 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

never  quite  get  it  into  her  head  that  it  was  not  an 
infringement  of  her  proprietary  right  in  Charlie. 

That  this  squirrel  somehow  spread  the  news 
that  we  were  a pair  of  incomprehensible  and 
effeminate  duffers  who  lived  on  peanuts,  without 
sufficient  masculinity  to  interfere  with  anything, 
and  that  the  whole  animal  creation  ought  to  take 
advantage  of  it,  I have  not  the  slightest  doubt, 
for  it  was  not  long  before  a woodchuck  came  in 
the  morning  and  sat  up  like  a kangaroo  on  our 
wire  grass,  and  tried  to  guy  us,  casting  occasional 
mild  and  inquiring  glances  at  our  open  door.  I 
remembered  enough  of  my  natural  history  to 
know  that  this  was  the  American  marmot,  set 
down  in  the  vulgar  vernacular  as  the  “ ground- 
hog,” and  loaded  by  the  American  farmer  with 
a number  of  amiable  superstitions.  But  I never 
knew  what  a handsome  and  harmless  animal  he  is 
till  I consented  to  live  in  the  same  dimension  of 
space  for  a while  with  him.  He  would  sit  there 
in  his  marsupial  way,  and  wash  his  face  and  comb 
out  his  whiskers,  seeming  to  say  all  the  while,  “ I 
understand  that  you’re  not  on  the  shoot.”  By 
degrees  Charlie  coaxed  him  up  to  the  door-step, 
telling  me  to  keep  out  of  sight,  and  when  the 
early  summer  apples  came  he  would  roll  out  a 
ripe  one  to  him,  and  we  would  watch  him  with 
amusement  sit  up  and  sample  it.  So  this  fellow 
had  to  be  included  in  the  happy  family,  and  we 
called  him  “ Marmion,”  merely  on  account  of  the 
sound,  I suppose. 

It  was  Marmion  that  made  me  a Brahmin,  or  at 
42 


THE  KILLING  OF  MARMION 


least  brought  me  to  the  full  consciousness  that  1 
was  a Brahmin.  He  attached  himself  to  us  with 
such  a confiding  gentleness,  and  sat  round  with 
such  a helpless  and  appealing  dependency,  that 
we  admitted  him  to  the  entourage  quite  as  a matter 
of  course.  Then,  too,  I was  put  to  it  by  Charlie 
to  draw  on  all  my  rusty  stock  of  natural  history 
to  explain  hibernation  and  rake  up  the  old  myths 
of  the  Farmers’  Almanac  about  the  marmot’s 
weather  prognostications,  especially  his  immemo- 
rial habit  of  coming  out  in  the  spring  to  look  for 
his  shadow ; and  I discovered  how  deeply  inter- 
ested, beyond  all  else,  boys  are  in  animals,  most 
of  them  preferring  the  menagerie  to  the  circus 
before  they  are  sophisticated,  and  all  of  them 
caring  more  for  a dog  than  for  the  Decalogue. 

In  thinking  the  matter  over,  I arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  on  account  of  Charlie  that 
the  beasts  of  the  field  became  so  familiar.  I 
framed  a comfortable  theory  that  there  was  a 
millennial  link  between  childhood  and  the  whole 
animal  kingdom.  No  sooner  had  this  fancy 
taken  firm  root  than  it  began  to  throw  out  an- 
other, which  was  that  childhood,  thus  extending 
a hand  downward  to  the  dumb  up-looking  origins 
of  life,  might  extend  another  upward  toward  the 
serene  Beyond  to  which  all  life  was  tending.  It 
was  in  this  way  that  our  isolation  and  sweet  com- 
panionship stirred  some  unsuspected  and  medici- 
nal forces  in  my  own  tired  heart,  as  if  a harassed 
and  strained  man  could  climb  back  into  the  cradle 
of  life  and  hear  the  original  lullaby. 

43 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

One  Sunday  morning  Griselle  had  insisted  on 
taking  Charlie  to  church.  She  had  come  over  in 
extra  muslins,  looking  very  crisp  and  blossomy. 
Together  we  had  polished  up  the  boy,  and  then 
they  had  gone  away  hand  in  hand,  very  happy, 
without  even  looking  back  or  giving  me  a thought. 
Charlie’s  last  instruction  to  me  was,  “ Don’t  for- 
get to  give  that  apple  on  the  table  to  Marmion 
when  he  comes  in,  and  give  him  the  other  one 
when  he  comes  back.”  This  led  to  the  explana- 
tion from  Charlie  that  the  animal  always  carried 
the  first  apple  away,  and  ate  the  second  one  con- 
tentedly on  the  lawn,  because  he  had  young  ones 
somewhere.  I rolled  the  two  apples  out  on  the 
wire  grass,  took  my  stick,  went  off  for  a solitary 
walk,  and,  coming  to  an  inviting  cloister  on  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  I sat  down  under  a cedar 
canopy  to  take  some  deep  breaths  of  Sunday 
solitude  and  to  ask  myself  what  inscrutable  bar 
there  was  to  my  going  to  church  with  Griselle. 
The  tinkling  bell  of  the  distant  chapel  added  a 
faint  melancholy  rhythm  to  the  air  as  it  mingled 
with  the  low  inarticulate  psalm  that  went  up  from 
the  earth,  £C  making  a cathedral  of  immensity  for 
the  everlasting  worship  without  words.”  Every- 
thing was  at  rest  and  breathing  a Te  Deum. 

Suddenly  there  broke  in  upon  it  all  the  dis- 
cordant sound  of  men’s  voices,  harsh  and  jarring, 
accompanied  by  eager  dog  barks  — that  blend 
of  screams  and  yaps  that  indicates  intense  animal 
excitement,  and  I started  off  to  find  out  what  was 
the  matter.  It  was  not  long  before  I came  up 

44 


THE  KILLING  OF  MARMION 

with  a group  of  stalwart  young  men  with  their 
coats  off,  working  like  mad  at  a stone  wall  to 
get  at  something  hiding  therein.  They  had  with 
incredible  labour  and  inexplicable  enthusiasm 
and  noise  pulled  down  about  six  feet  of  it, 
cemented  and  wire-wound  as  it  was  with  age  and 
blackberry  vines,  their  three  dogs  dancing  about 
in  half-delirious  expectation.  So  intent  were 
they  all  on  their  hunt  that  they  gave  no  sort  of 
heed  to  me,  and,  believing  them  to  be  after  a 
venomous  reptile,  I watched  them  with  curiosity, 
some  kind  of  brute  elation  in  me  responding  to 
the  noise  and  conflict  of  it.  At  last,  when  a bur- 
row had  been  uncovered,  and  the  biggest  dog  of 
the  three  thrust  his  nose  in,  what  was  my  aston- 
ishment to  see  him  pull  out  an  animal  and  throw 
him  with  a vicious  jerk  into  the  centre  of  the 
group,  and  there  sat  Marmion  on  his  haunches, 
to  be  greeted  by  a chorus  of  relentless  exultation 
as  he  looked  at  dogs  and  men,  trying,  in  one 
momentary  glance  of  wonder,  before  he  was  torn 
to  pieces,  to  comprehend  the  inexplicable  injustice 
and  cruelty  of  it.  I shall  always  remember  the 
reproach  of  that  look.  Such  intelligence  as  the 
poor  animal  had  was  wrought  in  a moment  to  a 
pitiful  interrogation.  “Why  should  four  men 
and  three  dogs  beset  with  demoniac  delight  such 
a harmless  creature  as  I am  ? ” Something  of 
the  same  futile  astonishment  beset  me.  There 
was  no  use  trying  to  rescue  Marmion.  He  was 
torn  to  pieces  before  I could  make  myself  heard. 
But  why  it  should  afford  such  satisfaction  to  the 

45 


JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


men,  and  why  four  such  lusty  examples  of  man- 
hood should  be  so  devoid  of  a sense  of  magna- 
nimity, I could  not  for  the  life  of  me  understand. 

I did  not  understand  then,  nor  have  I under- 
stood since,  what  it  is  impels  intelligent  immortal 
souls  to  this  purposeless  and  cruel  frenzy.  I 
came  slowly  back,  and  when  Charlie  arrived  and 
saw  the  two  apples  lying  on  the  grass,  he  asked 
me  if  Marmion  had  not  come  that  morning.  I 
only  said,  “ No  ; he  did  not  come.” 

There  are  some  things  you  do  not  tell  a child. 
I suppose  it  is  because  you  do  not  want  him  to 
be  ashamed  of  his  species  too  early  in  life. 


46 


GABE  HOTCHKISS  SPLIT  MY  WOOD  AND  BROUGHT  THE  SUPPLIES. 


CHAPTER  IV 


HAYING  TIME 

THE  two  human  beings  who  had  come  to 
my  assistance  in  my  exile  were  admirably 
adapted  to  carry  out  the  Doctor’s  regime. 
As  I have  already  said,  Gabe  Hotchkiss  split 
my  wood  and  brought  the  supplies  up  from  the 
village  twice  a week  in  his  farm-wagon,  and  his 
niece  Griselle  came  dancing  o’er  the  flowery  lea 
every  morning  like  Aurora  to  cook  my  eggs  and 
bacon.  They  both  regarded  my  domestication 
with  a small  boy  in  that  hut  with  respectful  won- 
der, and  I often  saw  them  with  their  heads 
together  comparing  some  fresh  discovery  and 
trying  to  get  a new  light  on  my  mystery.  I was 
evidently  beyond  their  mental  processes.  I was 
undoubtedly  a gentleman,  and  might  be  a million- 
naire  doing  penance,  but  there  was  no  reason  why 
a gentleman  might  not  be  a crank,  or  perhaps  a 
counterfeiter.  In  any  case,  I was  legitimate  prey 
for  the  rustic  appetite.  They  treated  me  with  a 
discreet  obeisance  that  no  familiarity  on  my  part 

47 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

could  break  through.  There  the  mental  pro- 
cesses  stopped,  and  the  obeisance  ran  on  unevent- 
fully without  therm  I managed  to  let  them 
know  by  devious  explanations  that  I was  an 
invalid  doing  a quiet  outing  with  my  boy  for  the 
sake  of  his  and  my  health.  It  was  very  interest- 
ing to  see  Griselle’s  feminine  solicitude  peep  out 
at  times,  as  if  she  were  wondering  when  I would 
have  a spell,  and  she  could  get  hot  cloths  ready 
and  stew  down  some  burdock,  and  Gabe  could 
enliven  matters  by  rattling  that  farm-wagon  three 
or  four  miles  for  the  country  doctor  and  his 
bottle  of  quinine. 

Griselle  was  a human  butter-pat,  sweet  and 
fresh  from  the  rural  churn,  with  the  family  stamp 
on  her  face,  and  ready  for  the  market.  She  had 
not  as  yet  been  put  on  the  dairy-shelf,  where,  as 
you  know,  all  butter-pats  begin  to  absorb  what- 
ever is  nearest  and  strongest. 

And  then  she  took  to  Charlie  so  ingenuously 
and  easily  that  I conceived  an  entirely  new  order 
of  respect  for  this  rustic  handmaiden  who,  when 
she  was  not  flitting,  was  standing  on  an  inacces- 
sible pedestal  of  youth  to  which  my  maturity 
looked  up  with  admiration,  but  without  ever 
being  able  to  exactly  make  out  whether  it  was 
a fancy  of  Watteau’s  or  a realistic  part  of  the 
commonplace  life  that  I had  come  into.  She 
was  always  turning  toward  me  an  inquiring  face 
of  mingled  girlhood  and  womanhood  that  I had 
never  anywhere  encountered. 

The  demoiselles  of  my  late  life  were  all  delicious 
48 


HAYING  TIME 


and  anxious  antagonists  whose  prerogative  it  was 
to  aggravate,  and  baffle,  and  outwit.  They  always 
kept  one  trying  to  make  out  what  was  beneath 
their  decorative  exteriors.  Woman  to  me  had 
been  for  several  years  a predetermined  hallucina- 
tion from  which  man  was  always  in  danger  of 
being  freed  by  marrying  it.  Her  most  delightful 
piquancy  was  a little  apprehension  that  she  would 
at  some  time  be  caught  and  found  out,  and  I fell 
into  the  easy  cynicism  of  my  set,  believing  it  was 
pleasantest  to  be  deceived  and  even  saying  that  if 
love  began  with  understanding,  it  would  begin 
where  it  ought  to  end — and  that  would  be  very 
much  like  an  acorn  beginning  by  being  an  oak. 
But  then  it  is  so  different  with  a butter-pat ! You 
are  liable  to  melt  all  its  lineaments  unless  you 
keep  it  cool.  Of  course  the  masculine  nature 
never  sees  a butter-pat  fresh  and  inviting,  but  it 
has  an  irresistible  dairy  impulse  to  mould  it  anew 
and  generally  makes  a mess  of  it.  But  when  a 
man  reaches  the  age  of  forty-four,  perhaps  butter 
is  not  so  apt  to  melt  in  his  mouth. 

There  was  a fine  paternal  dignity  on  my  part 
for  several  weeks  with  this  handmaiden.  I in- 
structed her  about  Charlie  and  other  duties  with 
a proper  sense  of  the  chasm  that  was  to  yawn 
between  us,  and  over  which  she  invariably  skipped 
without  the  slightest  recognition  of  it.  In  other 
words,  the  butter-pat  went  on  in  its  dairy  way, 
and  I was  the  thing  that  was  melted. 

Now  I think  of  it,  it  was  the  absence  of  shock 
that  was  doing  all  the  work  without  my  knowing 

49 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

it.  The  benignity  of  a graciously  enforced  loafing 
period  never  dawned  on  me  until  I began  to  pick 
up  some  of  its  surprises.  My  first  discovery  was 
that  I could  look  myself  in  the  face,without  being 
frightened.  There’s  nothing  so  very  dreadful 
about  you  when  you’re  left  to  your  own  resources, 
I said.  Then  I began  to  discover  the  sanitation 
of  uneventfulness.  This  life  was  a sort  of  homoeo- 
pathic application  of  death  itself  as  a prophylactic 
of  death,  just  as  sleep  is.  To  lie  still  for  a while 
on  this  great  breast  of  the  universe  and  hear  the 
mother  breathe  is  suspensive  but  restorative. 

I found  myself  at  various  sly  times  trying  to 
find  out  if  Griselle  was  pretty,  and  I was  generally 
baffled  by  the  equally  sly  suspicion  that  she  knew 
what  I was  up  to.  Her  first  appearance  on  the 
scene  had  been  in  the  centre  of  an  enormous  arm- 
ful of  lilacs,  carelessly  plucked  as  she  crossed  the 
field  from  the  old  Hotchkiss  cc  Folly,”  and  ever 
after  she  was  associated  in  my  mind  with  the 
spring  odour  of  lilacs.  She  wore  her  rustic  airs 
with  the  same  superiority  that  a Niobe  would 
give  to  her  tears.  She  floated  in  and  out  of  that 
homely  little  domicile  not  unlike  an  ordinary 
butterfly,  always  appearing  to  be  a great  deal 
more  gossamer  and  ethereal  than  she  really  was, 
and  creating  the  strange  fantasy  that  it  was  her 
special  duty  in  life  to  keep  up  that  odour  of  lilacs. 
This  girl  element  of  the  exile  was  very  insidious. 
It  had  the  soft,  whelming  quality  of  a summer 
cloud,  that  we  have  the  best  authority  for  saying 
never  excites  our  special  wonder. 

50 


HAYING  TIME 


I acknowledge  that  the  vacuum  of  such  a life 
was  something  dreadful  at  first.  It  was  like  some 
of  those  gifted  convicts  who  are  compelled  to 
come  down  from  transcontinental  railroad-wreck- 
ing or  bank-looting  to  making  shoes.  But  even 
the  convict,  when  his  sentence  is  determined, 
must  adapt  himself  to  his  stripes.  All  the  time 
that  I was  growling  and  groaning  a change  was 
taking  place.  One  day,  at  the  end  of  three  weeks, 
I suddenly  discovered  that  I had  forgotten  to  lie 
awake  at  night.  I had  been  sleeping  for  a fort- 
night like  the  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  and 
hadn’t  noticed  it.  The  next  discovery  was  that 
ham  allays  hunger  as  well  as  broiled  sweetbreads, 
and  strawberries  gain  a relish  by  picking  them 
yourself.  That  discovery  led  me  to  assist  Griselle 
in  shelling  peas  and  peeling  the  potatoes.  As  a 
volunteer  I had  to  lie  a little.  I told  her  that  I 
had  learned  all  about  it  when  camping  out — as 
if  one  ever  had  peas  when  camping  out,  or  ever 
peeled  his  potatoes.  But  what  did  she  know 
about  it  ? She  only  held  up  my  parings  after- 
ward, and  remarked  that  potatoes  must  have  been 
plentiful  when  I camped  out. 

The  absolute  unstrungness  of  shelling  peas  was 
new  to  me.  I should  not  hesitate  now,  as  an 
expert,  to  say  to  any  master  mind  wearied  with 
the  problem  of  existence  — try  shelling  peas.  To 
be  relieved  from  the  duty  of  circumventing  Smith 
and  killing  Brown,  and  saving  your  scalp  from 
Jones,  and  saying  smart  things  to  madame,  and 
being  continually  on  the  lookout  that  somebody 

5i 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

does  not  hit  you  in  the  back  of  the  neck  una- 
wares, gives  a certain  voluptuous  spontaneity  to 
idleness.  No  dress-coat  to  put  on  in  the  even- 
ing ; no  hypocritical  letters  to  be  answered  ; no 
flowers  to  be  bought ; no  new  restaurant  in  some 
dirty  street  to  be  put  up  with  ; no  tiresome  hostess 
to  listen  to  ; no  weary  sense  of  being  on  parade. 
Freedom  to  go  barefooted  if  I felt  like  it,  and  eat 
with  my  knife  if  the  impulse  took  me.  Safe  from 
that  demoniac  cry  of  “ Ah  there  ” ; never  startled 
by  a cc  Halloo.”  All  the  social  bandages  gone, 
and  with  them  most  of  the  lies  that  they  engender. 

One  day  I walked  over  with  Griselle  to  see  the 
Hotchkiss  “ Folly  ” — a great  tumble-down  man- 
sion, whose  projector  had  ruined  himself,  and  was 
now  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind  somewhere  under 
his  old  apple  trees.  What  he  had  laid  out  as  a 
prospective  park  had  reverted,  in  the  inevitable 
course  of  Nature,  to  a bedraggled  farm.  The 
other  practical  Hotckisses  had  foreclosed,  and 
the  latest  Hotchkiss,  crawling  out  like  a spider 
from  some  web  where  he  was  biding  his  time, 
had  taken  possession,  and  was  now  making  it  pay 
the  taxes  and  keep  him.  An  atmosphere  of  van- 
ished hopes  mingled  with  its  wild  spilth.  Great 
big  colonial  rooms,  weedy  porches,  rotted  and 
twisted  by  wistaria  that  had  screwed  itself  into  all 
the  chinks  and  made  them  gap.  A grandmother 
in  one  end  of  it,  close  to  the  summer  kitchen, 
and  the  big  oven  that  had  been  closed  up  for 
years,  but  had  smoke  stains  still  around  its  mouth, 
telling  how  it  had  once  flamed  and  roared.  The 

52 


HAYING  TIME 


well  stood  close  to  the  door  with  a gourd  for  a 
dipper,  and  some  tall  grasses  leaned  over  the 
curb  to  look  at  themselves  in  the  cool  mirror. 
Griselle  conducted  me  from  room  to  room  as  an 
ancient  guide  might  do.  She  opened  an  old  par- 
lor, threw  back  the  shutters,  letting  in  a yellow 
gleam  on  the  surprised  matting.  She  even  played 
“ I Would  Not  Live  Always”  on  the  old  melo- 
deon,  after  lifting  off  several  boxes  of  seed  and  a 
bunch  of  laurel  that  had  evidently  lain  there  since 
last  Christmas.  It  was  very  magical.  The  antique 
squeak  of  that  old  bellows  swept  me  back  to  other 
days.  How  could  she  know  that  there  was  any 
irony  in  her  song,  and  that  I would  not  have  been 
there  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  unreasonable  desire 
to  live  always  ? The  tender,  asthmatic  pulse  of 
the  instrument  made  me  feel  like  a Hawthorne, 
and  my  emotions  bulged  as  if  with  “ Mosses 
from  an  Old  Manse.” 

On  another  occasion  I arrived  there  in  haying 
time.  Do  you  know  what  a dry  spell  in  the 
woods  means  in  early  July?  It  is  at  that  fecund 
hour  that  Nature  comes  into  the  full  flush  of  life. 
Her  atoms  seem  to  break  into  animate  existence, 
and  you  stand  in  a vortex  of  flying  dust  that  takes 
on  the  first  stir  of  vitality.  The  days  are  heavy 
with  the  weight  of  creation,  and  the  tide  of  life 
croons  in  your  ears  as  you  sit  and  fan  yourselt 
helplessly.  The  hours  are  parched,  and  vegeta- 
tion languishes  with  its  burden  of  insects.  But 
it  was  haying  time,  and  Gabe  Hotchkiss  gave 
me  to  understand  that  all  the  affairs  connected 


53 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


with  man’s  destiny  were  suspended  until  the  hay 
was  in.  He  had  no  time  to  go  to  the  village, 
and  my  letters  had  to  wait.  When  he  explained 
to  me  that  he  had  twenty  acres  of  timothy  stand- 
ing and  couldn’t  get  any  help  to  “throw  it  down,” 
I asked  him  in  a moment  of  reckless  bravado  why 
he  did  not  hire  me  to  help  him.  “ What  do  you 
pay  anyway  ? ” 

“ Dollern  half  a day.  Did  you  ever  cut  grass  ? ” 

I thought  a moment.  I could  not  remember 
that  I ever  did.  In  fact,  I could  not  remember 
that  I had  ever  cut  anything  but  a few  coupons 
and  some  disagreeable  friends,  neither  of  which 
operations  requires  a machine.  I told  him  I 
thought  that  any  smart  man  could  manage  to  get 
through  a day  of  it  on  a pinch,  now  that  it  had 
been  reduced  to  mechanism. 

“ You  might  work  the  raker,”  he  said  doubt- 
fully. “ That  would  save  Griselle.  She  wants 
to  do  up  her  cherries.”  m 

I can  safely  and  graciously  write  about  haying 
time  now  from  my  far  outlook.  These  things 
get  some  kind  of  aura  from  the  distance  (you  can 
put  that  quotation  about  the  loan  of  enchantment 
to  the  view  in  here,  if  you  know  who  said  it — I 
don’t).  I’m  afraid  that  the  felicities  of  agricul- 
ture are  like  those  problem  plays  we  read  about, 
and  acquire  beauty  according  to  the  square  of  the 
distance.  Perhaps  my  heroism  was  very  much 
like  that  of  the  bridge-jumper,  but  I really 
thought  at  the  time  that  the  feat  of  manual  labour 
and  the  earning  of  a “dollern  a half”  would  ele- 

54 


HAYING  TIME 


vate  me  in  my  own  estimation,  and  possibly  in 
the  estimation  of  the  practical  young  woman  who 
came  over  to  get  our  breakfasts.  Every  man  of 
sedentary  elegance  likes  to  kick  through  his  po- 
lite shackles  at  times,  and  show  that  his  arms  are 
not  utterly  devoid  of  pith,  and  that  he  is  not 
such  a “goldarned  galoot”  as  the  sententious 
judgment  of  the  yeoman  declares  him  to  be. 

At  all  events,  I learned  some  things  which 
possibly  gave  my  after-thoughts  a gentler  and 
less  selfish  colour  when  I got  back  among  my  fel- 
lows. First,  I found  out  that  there  isn’t  any 
delicious  odour  of  new-mown  hay  in  the  haying 
operation,  or  at  least,  if  there  is,  you  do  not 
notice  it.  There  are  too  many  other  things  to 
attend  to.  In  the  second  place,  the  Arcadian 
delights  of  it  are  only  apparent  to  the  on-lookers, 
and,  if  there  is  any  satisfaction  to  the  workers 
themselves,  it  depends  a great  deal  on  whether 
hay  is  worth  twelve  dpllars  a ton,  and  who  owns 
it.  There  are  no  iced  drinks  between  swathes. 
There  is  no  shady  side  to  it,  and  in  haying  time 
the  thermometer  usually  stands  among  the  90’s. 
But  I must  acknowledge  that  Gabe  Hotchkiss* 
never  heard  of  a man  being  sunstruck  in  a hay- 
field,  and  Gabe’s  going  on  sixty-two,  coming 
next  apple  time,  and  doesn’t  lie  for  a cent.  Such 
ideas  as  I may  have  possessed  prior  to  this  experi- 
ence were  vaguely  ideal  and  Watteauish.  Hay- 
ing time,  to  me,  was  a sort  of  rural  festival,  with 
village  maidens  in  short  dresses  and  ribbons  and 
high  heel  shoes,  the  heels  generally  painted  red, 

55 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

clustered  in  pretty  tableaux,  like  Dryads  on  the 
top  of  a heavily  loaded  wain,  with  their  rakes  on 
their  shoulders.  I think  if  you  had  asked  me 
at  any  time  in  Wall  Street  what  was  the  special 
feature  of  haying,  I would  have  answered,  cc  Why, 
the  nooning,  of  course,  under  the  hedge  tree, 
where  the  lusty  farmers  drink  their  switchel  out 
of  a jug,  and  £ chomp'  their  home-made  bread 
and  home-cured  ham  in  voracious  innocence, 
while  the  kindly  animals  look  on  with  idyllic 
composure.” 

That  such  a picture  is  not  in  strict  accordance 
with  the  facts,  I have  now  to  state  very  solemnly. 
Beside  a twenty  acres’  hay-field  of  ripe  timothy, 
the  Staked  Plains  have  many  advantages  to  the 
luxuriant  observer.  But  I am  bound  in  honesty 
to  declare,  from  actual  experience,  that  the  work 
in  such  a field  has  certain  subtle  compensations. 
It  does  not  drain  the  vital  economy  of  a man 
like  a fifteen  minutes’  walk  on  lower  Broadway 
in  the  middle  of  the  day.  In  fact,  I have  known 
stalwart  girls  in  New  York  who  exhausted  more 
fibre  in  one  evening  doing  nothing,  than  they 
possibly  could  have  lost  had  they  driven  that 
raker  all  day  and  earned  their  porridge  with  the 
sweat  of  their  marble  brows. 

Gne  other  thing  I learned,  and  it  was  that  in 

a hav-field  all  conformities  and  considerations  of 

✓ 

rules  of  life  vanish.  The  one  thing  to  do  is  to 
get  the  hay  in  before  it  gets  wet.  Dinner-hour, 
breathing-time,  and  all  the  amenities  of  life  are 
suspended  till  the  job  is  done.  No  one  is  think- 

56 


GABE  HAD  TWO  TEAMS  IN  THE  FIELD,  FOR  HIS  TIMOTHY  WAS  VERY  DRY. 


HAYING  TIME 


ing  of  how  he  looks,  or  what  the  criticism  will  be, 
or  what  impression  he  is  making  on  the  observer. 
He  is  simply  taking  the  straight  line  between  two 
points,  and  the  points  are  the  field  and  the  barn. 

Gabe  had  two  teams  in  the  field  so  that  he 
could  cut  and  rake  simultaneously,  for  his 
timothy  was  very  dry,  and  he  did  not  intend  to 
get  more  of  it  “ thrown”  than  he  could  manage, 
and  I noticed  that  he  kept  his  eye  on  the  west  as 
though  he  expected  a shower.  About  two  o’clock 
I began  to  pray  for  it.  My  back  ached,  and  my 
hands  were  blistered.  But  Griselle  had  come 
into  the  field  with  her  chip  hat,  bringing  a dis- 
tinctly Watteau  flavour  at  last,  and  I was  not  going 
to  give  way  under  her  eye.  She  looked  at  me 
with  wonder,  I thought,  and  presently  had  a 
pitch-fork  in  her  hand.  By  and  by,  when  a bank 
of  dun  clouds  began  to  roll  up  in  the  west,  I 
rejoiced  in  my  heart.  It  really  looked  like  an 
atmospheric  rescue.  We  had  cut  about  four 
acres,  and  now  it  would  be  a race  to  get  it  in.  I 
distinctly  remember  that  some  kind  of  noble 
enthusiasm  was  caught  from  Gabe,  in  this  conflict 
with  Nature,  of  an  entirely  different  quality  from 
that  zest  with  which  one  enters  into  a conflict 
with  his  fellow-man.  I forgot  all  about  my  hands 
and  my  back  in  my  sympathic  anxiety  to  see 
Gabe  beat  that  rain-storm,  and  I felt  like  giving 
a shout  as  the  last  forkful  went  up  into  his  hay- 
loft and  a peal  of  congratulatory  thunder  broke 
over  us  that  startled  the  horses. 

How  it  did  rain  ! It  pounded.  The  water 

57 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

came  down  in  sheets  mixed  with  hail.  Little 
rivers  broke  loose  all  around.  The  gutters 
spouted  and  the  roof  reverberated.  Everything 
seemed  to  hold  its  mouth  wide  open,  and  Gabe 
stood  there  in  the  corner  of  the  barn  enjoying  the 
almost  savage  copiousness  of  it.  A Biblical  line 
came  into  my  mind  — Biblical  phrases  always  do 
pop  up  to  exactly  fit  an  emotion.  “ The  wild 
asses  drink  their  fill.”  I never  before  appreciated 
the  strength  of  that  line.  There  we  were,  men 
and  horses,  huddled  in  the  barn,  actually  bom- 
barded with  refreshment.  But  presently  it  cleared 
up.  A great  fresco  of  sunset  flamed  in  the  west, 
and  we  all  climbed  into  the  wagon  and  were 
rattled  back  to  the  “ Folly  ” under  wet  trees, 
every  one  of  which  tried  to  imitate  the  shower  in 
its  own  way  and  shook  its  drops  down  on  us  as 
we  passed.  But  we  were  very  jolly  as  we  jolted. 
The  consciousness  of  a victorious  accomplishment 
made  us  boisterously  kin  ; and  when  we  got  to 
the  house,  Griselle  had  a magnificent  supper  await- 
ing us  of  hot  slapjacks  and  cold  pork  and  beans 
and  fried  chicken,  a banquet  entirely  unfit  for 
gods,  it  was  so  bounteously  human.  After- 
ward Gabe  jolted  Charlie  and  me  to  our  hut 
and  dumped  us  on  the  wire  grass  pretty  well 
fagged.  When  we  were  alone  we  sat  and  looked 
at  each  other  rather  foolishly,  and  Charlie  re- 
marked, “ I thought  you  said  we  came  up  here 
to  play/’ 

“Yes,  we  did,  Comrade,”  I replied,  feeling 
after  an  appropriate  didacticism,  “ but  a little  hard 

58 


HAYING  TIME 


work  now  and  then  is  relished  by  the  wisest  men. 
I wished  to  set  you  a good  example,  my  boy. 
Look  at  my  hands.” 

But  you  cannot  deceive  a boy  with  that  kind 
of  hypocrisy.  He  looked  at  me  straight,  and 
said,  “Say,  Dad,  you’re  sleepy,  ain’t  you?” 

The  blessed  vacuity  of  being  tired  on  the  right 
side  was  a novelty,  and  it  was  fraught  with  a dull 
kind  of  satisfaction  that  at  last  I had  arrived  at 
that  condition  in  which,  like  the  yellow  dog,  I 
could  drop  down  at  a moment’s  notice  and  forget 
obediently.  When  you  are  physically  tired,  you 
take  a header  into  sleep  with  a recklessness  that 
is  juvenile,  and  the  moment  you  let  go  everything, 
Nature  sets  to  work  to  fix  things  up  thoroughly 
and  noiselessly,  so  that  when  you  wake  up  the 
next  morning  there  isn’t  anything  to  remember. 
You  cannot  do  this  when  you  are  mentally  tired. 
The  mind  runs  on  with  its  artificial  momentum 
in  spite  of  sleep.  I could  not  even  hear  the  clack 
of  that  reaper,  and  how  often  the  tick  of  the  tele- 
graph had  danced  through  my  head  the  livelong 
night. 

And  this  is  the  whole  lesson  — that  recupera- 
tion means  getting  away  from  yourself.  I remem- 
ber reading  in  Montaigne  long  ago  that  a man 
may  travel  the  world  over  like  a fugitive  without 
escaping  from  himself.  Now  I found  out  that  a 
man  cannot  do  an  honest  day’s  work  at  haying 
without  leaving  a good  deal  of  himself  behind. 

It  occurs  to  me  now  that  it  happened  to  be 
cherry  year  that  July,  and  cherry  year  does  not 

59 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

come  every  twelvemonth.  Cherry  year  occurs 
about  once  in  a decade.  Then  this  fruit  asserts 
itself  along  the  roadside  with  reckless  prodigality. 
Then  the  old  trees  remember  the  opulence  of 
other  days,  and  the  children  climb  up  into  them 
and  rejoice.  All  the  neighbours  mark  time  with 
enormous  cherry  puddings  and  “ slump. ” Have 
you  ever  been  present  at  “ slump  ” ? No  ? What 
a lot  you  have  missed.  There  is  a rotund  and 
reckless  profusion  to  “ slump  ” when  it  is  turned 
out  of  the  pot  upon  a big  dish  and  comes  on 
steaming  like  a mountain  of  ambrosia  that  would 
captivate  your  soul,  narrowed  as  it  is  by  petty 
courses  and  relays  of  side  dishes.  Then  it  is  that 
the  women  stand  over  the  hot  stove  and  gossip 
about  the  price  of  sugar,  and  try  in  vain  to  screw 
the  lids  off  their  glass  jars. 

But  after  all,  it  is  a shame  to  cook  the  jolly, 
carnal  cherry.  He  should  be  eaten  alive,  for  he 
is  a gentle,  meaty  reminder  of  our  primal  carnivo- 
rous days,  and  we  fondly  call  him  an  oxheart,  as 
if  with  a fleshly  remembrance. 


60 


THE  BASIN  WAS  NOT  FULL  ENOUGH  TO  RUN  OVER  THE  LIP  OF  THE  DAM,  .BUT  THE  WATER  FORCED 
ITS  WAY  THROUGH  MANY  CHINKS  SPORTIVELY,  IN  COOL  JETS. 


CHAPTER  Y 

DUMB  INTIMACIES 

ABOUT  five  minutes’  walk  from  our  cabin 
was  the  Cluny  Milldam,  a very  ragged  and 
weedy  barrier  across  a little  river,  which  it 
had  broadened  into  about  an  acre  of  sweet  water 
ten  feet  deep  at  the  spillway,  and  shallowing  off 
to  a thin  pond  at  the  upper  end  that  died  out 
into  a bit  of  wet  meadow.  The  banks  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  way  were  green  and  lush,  and 
willows  and  dogwood  screened  them  nicely. 
Such  little  artificial  lakes  are  common  enough  all 
over  our  country.  They  are  never  kept  in  repair, 
but  are  suffered  to  grow  rank  and  picturesque 
and  always  have  an  old  mill,  long  deserted,  at 
one  end  of  the  dam.  From  time  immemorial 
they  have  been  the  treasured  trysting-places  of 
the  boys.  To  this  pond  Charlie  and  I came  on 
the  hot  evenings  and  struck  up  an  entirely  new 
friendship  with  the  water.  The  basin  was  not 
full  enough  to  run  over  the  lip  of  the  dam,  but 

61 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

the  water  forced  its  way  through  many  chinks 
sportively,  in  cool  jets,  and  ran  glistening  down 
the  old  logs  and  beams  into  a pretty  sandy  pool 
below,  where  it  boiled  and  raced  in  solitude,  and 
then  went  singing  down  the  valley  through  the 
marsh  grasses.  On  those  torrid  nights  we  came 
stealthily  with  the  yellow  dog  through  the  jun- 
gle, let  ourselves  down  the  bank,  and,  after  de- 
nuding, sprawled  and  splashed  in  the  pool  until 
the  shadows  wrapped  us  in  their  soft  garments, 
and  the  stars  came  out  and  laughed  at  us. 

There  was  undoubtedly  some  kind  of  unsus- 
pected magic  in  the  place,  now  that  I think  of  it. 
The  old  dam  was  like  an  orchestra  of  oboes  and 
flutes,  to  which  the  little  raceway  added  a chorus 
of  its  own,  and  somehow  the  element  itself  had 
the  air  and  the  ingenuousness  of  youth  not  yet 
grown  lusty  and  rank  and  boisterous.  All  we 
had  to  do  was  to  accept  its  limpid  invitation,  and 
it  covered  us  with  cool  kisses  in  which  there  was 
a breath  of  mint  and  calamus.  To  catch  water 
in  its  pudicity,  before  it  has  grown  salacious  and 
turbulent  and  put  on  the  hoary  airs  of  the  ocean, 
is  a rare  delight.  It  is  like  establishing  an  under- 
standing with  a dog  or  going  down  into  the 
nursery  to  rest  your  soul  with  a bit  of  cc  who's 
got  the  button  ? ” If  you  have  only  known 
water  at  the  seashore,  in  its  acrid  puissance,  when 
it  is  like  a trade  union  and  glories  in  its  whelm- 
ing multitudinousness,  you  can  have  no  idea  of 
its  tender  intimacies  when  you  catch  it  in  the 
nursery  of  its  career. 


62 


DUMB  INTIMACIES 

Such  acquaintance  as  we  struck  up  with  the 
sweet  water  was  really  a private  and  confidential 
understanding.  We  did  not  insult  it  with  any 
social  functions  or  have  any  other  critics  on  the 
bank  than  the  muskrats  and  mud-turtles  that 
looked  at  us  through  the  branches.  We  stripped 
ourselves  down  to  an  instant  comradeship. 
Everywhere  else  in  the  world  we  should  have 
put  on  precautionary  <c  duds,”  which  seems  to 
me  now  very  much  like  putting  on  a mask  when 
you  are  about  to  say  your  prayers.  No  one 
knows  how  abominable  it  is  to  be  rolled  up  in 
wet  rags  except  those  fellows  who  have  walked 
in  puris  naturalibus  into  some  of  the  private 
grottoes  of  Nature  where  there  is  no  immodesty 
and  no  fear.  How  the  flesh  exults  when  it  feels 
the  contact  of  the  element.  How  astonishingly 
white  one  looks  against  the  dusks  and  shadows. 
What  a new  sense  of  benignity  to  lie  down  in 
the  pellucid  drift  and  measure  its  going  by  the 
caresses  it  flings  on  its  way.  What  douche  was 
comparable  to  those  cascades  that  went  down  our 
backs  as  we  sat  under  that  old  dam  ? Those 
persons  who  use  water  only  to  wash  themselves 
with  degrade  it,  and  it  generally  becomes  a very 
serious  servant  to  them.  To  Charlie  and  me  it 
had  no  duty  to  perform  but  to  frolic,  and  we 
heard  it  calling  to  us  in  soft  tones  long  before  we 
reached  the  dam. 

This  new  relationship  of  man  to  Things  was 
what  I meant  when  I said  it  was  a kind  of  natural 
faith,  but  it  is  Brahminical  rather  than  Christian. 

63 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

Browning  wrote  volumes  to  express  it,  and  when 
he  got  through,  he  had  simply  said : u All’s  well 
in  the  world.”  But  that  is  saying  a great  deal, 
isn’t  it?  I am  reminded  just  here  that  the  late 
Dr.  James  Martineau,  after  writing  two  monu- 
mental volumes  of  splendid  metaphysics  to  es- 
tablish the  reasonableness  and  the  beauty  of  the 
Nature  of  Things,  put  down  this  remarkable 
acknowledgment  in  his  preface:  cc  I am  now 

aware  of  the  tediousness  of  these  metaphysical 
tribunals,  especially  when  the  whole  process  wins 
at  last,  through  all  its  dizzying  circuits,  only  the 
very  position  which  common  sense  had  assumed 
at  first.” 

For  the  sensitive  city  man  or  woman,  it  would 
be  hard  to  find  a more  forbidding  place  than  a dark 
pool  at  night,  shut  in  by  thickets.  He  or  she 
brings  to  it  some  such  fantastic  horror  as  Poe 
has  furnished.  It  is  a “ ghoul-haunted  woodland 
of  Weir,”  just  as  soon  as  the  sun  leaves  it.  It 
swarms  with  obscene  things  and  dangerous.  Its 
water  pockets  are  pitfalls,  and  in  its  recesses  lurk 
enemies  that  writhe  if  you  touch  them.  But  all 
this  disappears  on  acquaintance.  Man  for  the 
most  part  breeds  these  monsters  in  himself.  It 
is  true  such  a place  is  haunted  by  all  manner  of 
strange  forms,  but  a man  finds  out  sooner  or 
later  that  one  and  all  of  them  are  held  to  a 
noblesse  oblige  that  they  never  violate.  Some  kind 
of  statute  ordains  that  they  shall  quietly  and 
politely  give  way  to  man,  and  even  the  tenacious 
snapping-turtle  that  comes  up  from  the  mud  of 

64 


DUMB  INTIMACIES 


the  pond  observes  us  with  a Chinese  decorum,  and 
sits  stolidly  by  or  goes  his  way.  We  learned  by 
insensible  degrees  that  nothing  interfered  with  us 
so  long  as  we  were  amicably  inclined.  Even 
that  exceptionally  mischievous  imp,  Sir  Stomoxys 
Calcitrans,  the  incisive  horse-fly,  that  later  in  the 
season  will  bite  through  a dress-coat  or  Parisian 
stays,  goes  to  roost  at  sundown,  and  as  for  the 
mosquitoes  which  every  milldam  spawns,  I 
learned  soon  enough  that  we  could  never  coax 
them  out  of  their  coverts  into  a current  of  air. 

Perhaps  you  think  that  these  things  are  not 
worth  learning,  and  are  quite  beneath  the  notice 
of  a Wall  Street  man.  As  for  that,  they  are  not 
worth  spending  time  and  thought  upon  if  you 
have  something  better  to  do,  but  the  beauty  of 
it  is  they  do  not  exact  any  time  or  thought. 
They  merely  accompany  you  as  you  frolic.  They 
are  like  the  water.  You  must  not  make  their 
acquaintance  with  a reporter’s  inquisitiveness,  but 
like  a fellow  craftsman  who  receives  the  pass- 
word and  keeps  it  to  himself. 

I recall  my  experience  lying  on  my  back  on  a 
deep  pool  of  those  waters,  looking  up  at  the  stars 
— and  then  looking  down  at  them,  until  I 
seemed  to  be  suspended  in  the  limitless  ether  and 
could  feel  the  soft  tide  of  the  great  spaces.  Then 
Gretry’s  words  came  to  my  mind : “ God  shuts 
off  this  world  once  every  twenty-four  hours  so 
that  we  can  see  the  universes.”  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  have  these  experiences  without  feeling  that 
the  dull  strifes  of  man’s  existence  slunk  back- 

65 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

ward  a little,  and  that  one  had  touched  upon 
some  kind  of  deep-lying  assurance,  for  it  is  at 
such  moments  of  implicit  abandonment  that  one 
can  hear  the  soft  swing  of  the  planets  themselves. 
Often  when  Charlie  and  I came  home  through 
the  cool  woods,  I would  look  at  him  and  then, 
like  Dr.  Martineau,  feel  that  the  course  of  my 
dizzying  speculations  brought  me  out  where  the 
boy  started. 

I may  as  well  say  that  my  conviction  as  a cas- 
ual observer  of  Nature  — and,  alas,  I have  been 
too  busy  to  be  anything  more  — my  conviction 
is  that  you  must  seek  her  confidences  when  she 
is  not  in  one  of  her  exhibition  moods.  Like 
woman  herself,  she  is  only  communicative  when 
her  passions  and  pageants  are  over,  and  then  it 
is  that  she  will  put  her  cool  hand  in  yours  and 
let  you  see  her  gray  spirits  and  white  lisping 
through  her  bare  ruined  choirs.  Then  it  is  she 
speaks  in  sibylline  undertones.  She  is  a little 
hushed  by  the  stars.  The  conventional  man 
only  knows  her  in  her  exhibition  spells.  He 
remembers  her  full-dress  sunsets  and  her  decora- 
tive autumns.  He  revels  in  her  blazonry  of  sun- 
shine, but  he  never  dared  enter  her  cloisters  and 
catch  her  in  dishabille. 

I think  the  medicinal  touch  of  the  sweet  waters 
often  remained  with  us  in  our  dreams.  We 
could  hear  the  Mother  crooning  while  we  slept, 
and  that  cool  lullaby  was  very  apt  to  have  a 
minty  breath.  But  better  than  all  was  the  sense 
of  immunity  that  was  built  into  me,  and  that  is, 

66 


DUMB  INTIMACIES 


I think,  a very  curious  and  a very  precious  thing. 
We  come  into  life  bugaboo-haunted.  Our  infan- 
tile souls  reverberate  the  fears  of  our  ancestors 
and  shudder  at  the  dark.  But  always  there  is  at 
the  bottom  of  our  consciousness  an  unexercised 
mastership  of  soul  that  breaks  loose  often  in 
dreams  and  carries  us  defiantly  against  our  envi- 
ronment. We  walk  in  fiery  furnaces  and  are  not 
consumed.  We  wander  on  fields  of  eternal  ice 
and  are  not  cold ; we  lie  down  with  the  kine  in  the 
chilly  spring  rains  and  feel  them  not ; we  float  in 
the  ether  without  propulsion.  To  be  able  in  the 
slightest  degree  to  approximate  these  experiences 
in  our  waking  hours ; to  look  serenely  on  the 
grinding  wheels  of  creation  without  a throb  ; to 
know  that  all  the  grades  of  existence  beneath  us 
have  been  our  playground,  and  are  coming  up 
our  way,  makes  the  ghost  stories  disappear  one 
by  one.  That  Nature  rightly  viewed  and  obedi- 
ently wooed  has  this  intimation  of  immortality 
and  immunity  in  her  was  Wordsworth’s  creed. 
Nature,  when  listened  to  rightly,  always  seems  to 
me  to  be  saying  exactly  what  my  old  tutor  used  to 
say  to  me  : “But  why  be  so  impatient?  You  have 
an  eternity  before  you  and  an  eternity  behind 

) y 

you. 

I put  it  down  as  the  best  outcome  of  my  small 
philosophy,  gained  in  a long  vacation,  that  it  is  a 
good  education  for  a man  to  stop  wrestling  with 
Thoughts  and  get  acquainted  with  Things.  Of 
course,  we  cannot  all  be  philosophers  or  even 
savants.  We  must  go  back  into  the  thick  of  the 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


fight.  Rut  it  is  a very  good  plan  at  times  to  stop 
overcoming  and  obey;  to  lie  down  and  listen. 
That  there  are  sermons  in  stones  and  tongues  in 
trees,  we  have  the  best  of  authority  for  believing, 
but  the  Shaksperian  sense  of  it  is  not  the  recu- 
perative and  obedient  sense,  for  Shakspere  im- 
puted a great  deal  to  Things  with  the  authority  of 
a poet,  and,  like  Orlando,  tacked  himself  up  on  the 
trunks  to  their  infinite  embellishment.  To  me  it 
is  the  absence  of  books  in  running  brooks  that 
delights.  One  gets  past  somebody’s  impression 
of  the  thing  to  the  thing  itself,  and,  after  all,  that 
is  a fraternal  realism  that  is  not  to  be  explicated. 
Whatever  the  secret  of  the  thing  is,  it  is  yours 
when  you  cease  to  question  it. 

How  often  since,  in  the  fever  and  disappoint- 
ments of  life,  when  ingratitude  or  envy  or  insin- 
cerity hurt  me,  I have  thought  of  that  old  Cluny 
Milldam,  and  pictured  myself  once  more  lying  on 
my  back  between  the  illimitable  depths  above  and 
below,  that  were  glittering  with  stars,  and  Charlie 
somewhere  near,  adding  his  childish  voice  to  the 
waters.  I suppose  we  are  all  prodigals  at  our 
best,  only  it  is  hardly  correct  to  say  that  we  are 
returning  to  the  Mother,  for  we  never  quite  got 
away  from  her.  But  I think  that  most  of  us  who 
look  backward  over  our  winding  paths,  at  all 
the  palaces  we  built  and  deserted,  will  find  that 
they  had  no  such  outlooks  as  the  open  doors  and 
ample  windows  of  the  cabins  and  rude  blossomy 
bowers  we  erected  during  our  first  pilgrimage; 
and  I fancy  that  many  a man  who  is  tired  of  his 
* 68 


DUMB  INTIMACIES 


Alhambra  lingers  with  an  immortal  childishness 
over  his  vagabondage,  even  when,  as  Eleanor 
Sweetman  puts  it : — 

((  Sorrow  has  built  a palace  in  his  soul 
With  windows  opening  on  eternity.” 


69 


CHAPTER  VI 
a summer’s  pippin 


GABE  HOTCHKISS  was  a forehanded  vet- 
eran who  had  developed  along  “ the  cool 
sequestered  vale  of  life  ” until  it  was  hard 
to  distinguish  him  from  the  materials  he  had 
worked  with.  He  wore  the  aspect  of  a sinewy 
old  trunk,  gray  and  gnarled,  whose  roots  in  the 
ground  have  outspread  the  branches  in  the  air.  I 
was  afraid  his  thrift  was  earthy.  I could  not 
quite  make  out  if  that  stoop  in  his  shoulders  was 
humility  or  gravitation.  His  hair  grew  bushy 
and  gray  all  over  his  head  and  down  his  jaws  to 
a sort  of  mossy  stalactite  on  his  chin  (I  was  get- 
ting bald  at  forty-four).  He  never  was  sick  a 
day  in  his  life  after  he  teethed,  barring  three  days 
that  he  was  laid  up  that  year  of  the  Chicago  fire 
by  Squire  Losee’s  bull  that  hooked  him  under 
the  rib  and  threw  him  over  a stone  fence.  He 
had  risen  and  set  as  regularly  as  the  sun  for  sixty- 
five  years,  and  there  was  no  physical  intimation 

70 


A SUMMER’S  PIPPIN 


that  he  would  not  continue  to  rise  and  set  for 
sixty-five  more.  He  was  as  punctual  as  the  gas- 
collector,  or  the  seventeen-year  locust,  and  he  could 
cut  and  pile  a cord  of  wood  without  stopping  to 
take  heed  or  take  breath,  and  then  walk  to  town 
for  his  supplies  when  he  wanted  to  save  his  horses. 
Is  this  the  standard  that  Nature  sets  up  for  us  in 
her  ideal  man  ? 

Gabe  had  fibre,  but  no  temperament.  There 
was  a stolid  independence  in  his  unassertive  air 
that  was  quietly  masterful.  He  had  put  away  a 
thousand  dollars  a year  for  ten  years  “ outen  his 
hay,”  and  Heaven  only  knows  what  he  had  before 
that.  Panics  might  come,  banks  might  break. 
He  would  read  of  them  in  his  weekly  family  paper, 
and  smile  with  the  air  of  a man  who  has  got  past 
most  earthly  contingencies.  The  old  tortoise,  he 
made  me  feel  like  the  agile  hare  in  the  fabulous 
race.  His  lack  of  temperament  and  his  static 
health  aggravated  me  unreasonably.  A man  ought 
to  decay  obediently  as  well  as  develop  obediently. 
There  is  something  repulsive  in  an  old  man  who 
preserves  nothing  but  his  physical  vigour.  It  is 
not  even  an  animal,  only  a vegetable  virtue,  and 
reminds  one  of  the  hair  that  grows  through  the 
chinks  of  a coffin  after  a man  is  dead.  The  Doc- 
tor has  amiably  corroborated  me,  and  says  that  a 
man  ought  to  begin  to  die  gracefully  at  fifty.  He 
can  prolong  the  job  as  long  as  possible,  but  he 
should  not  neglect  it.  By  giving  up  the  ghost 
gradually  he  will  avoid  a disagreeable  convulsive 
fight  and  not  be  called  to  give  it  up  all  at  once. 

7i 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

I do  not  know  that  excessive  health  destroys 
temperament,  but  Gabe  had  not  as  much  as  a tree. 
A tree  is  at  least  sensitive  and  transmutes  carbon 
and  silex  into  something  a little  more  sympathetic 
than  gas  and  atoms.  There  was  a young  poplar 
visible  from  the  door  of  our  hut  that  had  many 
indications  of  juvenile  vivacity  and  responsive 
delicacy.  I have  watched  it  dancing  and  whisper- 
ing in  delight  and  turning  up  the  white  palms  of 
its  myriad  leaves  when  there  was  not  air  enough 
to  move  the  flame  with  which  I was  lighting  my 
corn-cob  pipe,  and  all  the  oaks  and  chestnuts 
stood  wrapped  in  petrified  disdain,  utterly  una- 
ware that  anything  was  passing. 

While  I am  writing  this  there  comes  back  to 
me  like  a fruity  odour,  the  remembrance  of  an 
apple  tree  that  stood  overshadowing  the  back 
porch  of  my  father’s  house.  It  was  a gnarled 
and  stunted  affair,  but  oh,  what  summer  apples 
it  bore  when  it  was  in  the  mood.  And  that’s  the 
point  — it  had  its  moods,  that  no  almanac  or  hor- 
ticulturist could  get  the  hang  of.  I have  never 
tasted  such  apples  since  — little  red-streaked 
affairs  that  burst  into  wine  at  the  very  sight  of 
your  teeth,  and  bent  the  boughs  low  down  with 
their  largesse.  When  the  family  of  us  grew  up 
and  went  our  ways,  we  often  wrote  home  from 
different  points  of  the  compass  for  a basket  of 
the  July  apples,  but  although  the  “ old  man” 
rolled  them  up  in  paper  and  packed  them  in  cool 
corn  leaves,  they  always  perished  before  we  got 
them,  for  they  captivated  with  their  odour  every 

72 


A SUMMER'S  PIPPIN 

insect  they  met  on  their  journey,  and  he  bored 
through  all  wrappages  to  get  at  them.  Those 
apples  had  to  be  eaten  the  moment  they  were 
plucked.  They  resented  anything  like  delay. 
They  were  so  evanescent  that  when  the  mater 
put  a dishful  of  them  on  the  hall  table,  it  was 
for  the  fleeting  odour,  and  she  warned  us  children 
not  to  touch  them  because  they  were  spoiling. 

That  tree  stood  awkwardly  in  the  roadway  and 
was  more  or  less  of  an  obstruction.  It  was  scarred 
by  the  hubs  of  passing  vehicles,  but  “ the  old 
man  ” could  never  find  it  in  his  heart  to  cut  it 
down.  It  was  the  most  wayward,  capricious  fruit 
tree  I ever  saw.  It  had  spells  when  it  pouted 
in  unblossomy  poverty.  But  there  were  other 
spells  when  the  fulness  and  the  overflow  of  Nature 
laid  hold  of  it.  Then,  like  a beautiful  wanton,  it 
made  love  to  the  children,  the  birds,  and  the  bees 
alike.  No  sooner  had  the  robins  arrived  than  it 
began  to  array  itself  like  a bride  in  odorous  tulle 
and  became  one  great  cloud  of  blossoms.  It 
banked  the  road  up  with  a kind  of  fairy  snow 
and  kept  the  brooms  flying  on  the  porch  with  a 
teasing  mischievousness.  All  the  birds  came  and 
flirted  with  it,  even  the  wrens  forgetting  their 
gamin  habits  and  accepting  it  as  a communal 
music-stand.  Thus  it  bore  witness  to  us  in  our 
thoughtless  youth  of  the  fleeting  character  of  all 
exquisite  things.  I never  could  quite  divest 
myself  of  the  fancy  that  John  Burroughs  and 
Thoreau  had  at  some  time  sat  under  that  tree 
and  munched,  for  did  I not  long  afterward  detect 

73 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

in  their  sentences  something  of  the  same  juicy 
aroma  of  that  elfin  fruit  ? 

But  to  return  to  Gabe,  I found  in  him  a grate- 
ful mental  relaxation.  His  animal  equanimity 
had  a soothing  effect  like  the  liberty  of  empty 
rooms  after  a rout.  You  felt  that  he  was  not  one 
of  those  fellows  who  have  a stock  of  words  on 
hand  and  are  continually  looking  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  which  they  can  fit  them.  His  mind,  or 
whatever  it  was  that  occupied  the  place  of  that  esse , 
always  took  the  straight  line  between  a thing  and 
a word.  He  would  no  more  be  original  or  smart 
than  he  would  be  liberal  or  imaginative.  His 
companionship  was  therefore  a kind  of  mental 
water-cure.  I could  sit  and  watch  him  saw  wood 
for  an  hour,  and  our  conversation  would,  as 
Henry  James  somewhere  put  it,  “be  ruffled 
delightfully  by  the  passing  airs  of  the  unsaid.” 
I remarked  to  him  while  thus  employed,  “ This 
will  be  a bad  season  for  potatoes,  Gabe.”  He 
stopped  a moment,  expectorated,  and  then  came 
at  it  as  the  crow  flies,  “ Gosh  to  hemlock,  that’s 
so,”  and  then  the  wood-sawing  went  on. 

I noticed  that  irony  and  repartee  took  on,  in 
Gabe’s  presence,  a curious  analogy  to  water  on  a 
duck’s  back,  and  you  cannot  imagine  how  deplet- 
ing and  soothing  all  this  is  to  get  where  every- 
thing is  trite  and  simple,  and  has  been  said  a 
thousand  times  before,  and  is  none  the  less  valu- 
able on  that  account.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that 
as  heaven  is  always  regarded  as  a place  of  rest, 
perhaps  it  may  be  a place  where  everybody  gives 

74 


A SUMMER’S  PIPPIN 


over  trying  to  be  cc  smart.”  Isn’t  there  some 
kind  of  intimation  of  this  in  the  communications 
that  are  said  to  come  from  the  other  side  ? 

But  there  was  Gabe’s  niece,  such  a graceful 
sapling  coming  up  from  the  roots  of  this  old 
stump.  Very  pretty  the  girl  was,  with  health  and 
vigour  and  a lot  of  fine  qualities  that  were  looking 
out  of  her  face  and  wondering  what  they  were 
made  for.  As  the  weeks  rolled  on,  I grew  to 
admire  her  very  loyally,  as  a well-disciplined  mas- 
culine sense  should,  and  I felt  also  very  grateful 
to  her.  It  was  really  as  if  some  one  had  come 
every  day  and  hung  a Fortuny  in  our  hut,  just 
for  fun,  as  the  children  sayc  Her  unconscious 
animal  grace,  so  wholly  independent  of  any  arti- 
ficial aid,  was  not  unlike  a simple  melody.  These 
unsophisticated,  long-limbed  Hebes  of  the  field 
have  a priority  of  command  which  we  never  ques- 
tion, and  I think  it  oftenest  expresses  itself  in 
motion.  Griselle  swished  about  in  the  little 
kitchen,  making  grace  audible,  and  to  the  acute 
ear  it  had  a finer  nuance  than  that  purely  textile 
swish  that  is  purchasable  in  society  by  the  yard. 
I noticed  her  running  on  the  wire  grass,  and  she 
had  an  unsuspected  regnant  swagger  that  is  in  the 
bones,  not  in  the  mind.  She  did  not  walk  — she 
bounded.  Her  animal  economy  exulted  and  gave 
her  head  a fine  toss.  She  seemed  to  be  making 
billows  of  emotion  and  crossing  them  without 
ever  knowing  it.  One  morning  she  came  over 
and  caught  me  unawares,  bellowing  a matinee 
hymn  out  of  sheer  thankful  exuberance,  because 

75 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

1 was  alive.  I must  have  blushed  a little,  and 
said  apologetically  and  religiously,  “ I was  prais- 
ing God  while  I was  at  my  best.” 

“ That’s  easy,”  she  replied,  tc  you  can’t  help  it. 
It’s  a good  deal  more  of  a job  to  praise  Him  at 
your  worst,”  and  then  she  blushed  as  if  she  had 
unwittingly  come  down  to  my  level  of  saying 
things  and  swished  off  to  the  kitchen,  actually 
going  through  that  narrow  door,  I thought,  as  if 
it  were  a circus  hoop. 

I find  a “ mem.”  in  my  note-book  which  must 
have  been  made  about  that  time.  It  reads  like 
this,  “ When  one  finds  a woman  as  God  made 
her  and  not  as  man  refashioned  her,  is  she  not 
apt  to  be  a handmaiden  ? ” 

I believe  some  vague  chivalrous  notion  crept 
into  my  mind  of  rescuing  her.  There  was*  no 
programme  about  it.  I only  said  to  myself,  it 
is  a great  shame  to  have  those  infinite  possibili- 
ties grow  up  gnarled  and  sinewy.  It  makes  one 
feel  like  putting  on  armour  and  hunting  round 
for  a lance,  to  see  them  peeping  out  of  castle 
windows  into  a world  unrealized. 

Charlie  did  not  take  my  view  of  Griselle.  A 
child  naturally  lacks  aesthetic  appreciation.  In 
a moment  of  confidence  I ventured  to  remark 
to  him  that  I was  glad  he  admired  the  young 
woman,  for  I considered  her  a very  estimable 
person,  and  he  informed  me  that  he  had  con- 
structed a rather  contemptuous  opinion  of  her. 
In  the  first  place  she  couldn’t  climb  a tree,  and 
then  she  did  not  see  any  fun  in  making  mud 

76 


A SUMMER’S  PIPPIN 


dams,  and  utterly  failed  to  understand  the  yellow 
dog’s  best  qualities.  Altogether,  it  was  consider- 
able of  a problem  with  him  what  girls  were  made 
for  anyway,  and  you  can  readily  understand  that 
it  was  too  esoteric  a job  for  me  to  tell  him. 

It  must  have  been  about  this  time  that  the 
following  note  was  written  down  in  my  log-book 
in  the  woods  : — 

“ Last  night  a pretty  little  black  messenger 
flew  out  of  the  night  into  the  room.  He  was 
vociferously  urgent  and  woke  me  up.  As  I lay 
on  my  back  in  the  dim  light,  trying  to  make  out 
if  he  were  a bat  of  reality  or  an  incubus  of  sleep, 
he  clung  to  the  mosquito-nettings,  head  down, 
and  twittered  ominously  and  plaintively,  and 
made  frightened  excursions  about  the  room, 
knocking  the  breath  out  of  his  body  against  the 
wall,  always  to  come  back  to  my  canopy  with  an 
alarum.  What  his  message  was  I could  not 
make  out,  but  I tried  to  reason  with  him,  one 
leg  on  the  wakeful  shore,  and  one  on  the  dream- 
ful sea.  I told  him  that  even  things  from  the 
Night’s  Plutonian  Shore  need  not  be  so  noisy 
and  hysterical,  and  if  he  had  delivered  his  mes- 
sage, he  could  go  away  again  and  leave  me  to 
sleep  on  it.  There  was  the  open  window,  with 
two  or  three  late  stars  low  down,  looking  in; 
why  not  go  out  like  a reasonable  herald  before 
I got  the  broom  ? 

“ But  the  fact  is,  mysterious  messengers  from 
the  shoreless  darks  are  about  the  stupidest  of 
winged  omens.  As  soon  as  I understood  that 

77 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

the  stranger  had  flapped  in  at  the  open  window 
where  the  netting  was  torn  and  was  making  all 
this  disturbance  because  he  did  not  know  enough 
to  flap  out  again,  I got  up  and  tried  to  assist  him. 
He  fought  me  bill  and  claw  and  knocked  down 
the  photograph  that  was  tacked  over  the  table. 
Getting  tired  of  it,  I went  back  to  bed.  When 
I woke  up  in  the  morning,  there  he  sat  on  the 
sill  against  the  lower  half  of  the  closed  sash, 
rather  weak  and  dishevelled  from  overexertion, 
and  looking  reproachfully  at  me  as  if  I had  been 
the  cause  of  it  all ; whereupon  I made  up  my 
mind  it  was  a female  bird,  and  having  caught  it, 
I brought  it  to  the  open  sash  to  let  it  sail  away, 
for  which  act  of  mercy  it  nipped  me  viciously  in 
the  thumb.” 

As  I was  looking  after  it,  I saw  Griselle  com- 
ing over  the  hill  like  — well,  like  a stave  of  Mil- 
ton’s L’Allegro  reciting  itself. 

But  when  Charlie  got  up,  the  first  thing  he 
said  was,  “ Why,  somebody’s  knocked  down 
mother’s  picture.” 


78 


CHAPTER  VII 


ABOUT  the  ist  of  August  the  delicate  ear,  no 
less  than  the  clear  sight,  can  detect  the  wane 
of  summer.  It  is  no  use  trying  to  comfort 
yourself  with  the  calendar,  there  is  a still  small 
voice  in  the  atmosphere.  There  will  be  sultry 
days  and  close  nights  and  volleying  showers,  but, 
in  spite  of  all,  there  is  a growing  restfulness,  as  if 
the  zest  of  it  were  over  and  the  lusty  hours  had 
grown  mature.  The  first  intimation  will  come 
from  the  cricket  that  ticks  the  transitions  of  the 
heyday  in  the  grass,  and  presently  the  preliminary 
creak  of  the  cicada  will  remind  you  that  the  com- 
ing six  weeks  lead  up  to  the  frost. 

August,  in  spite  of  all  her  furbelows,  loses 
some  of  the  romp  of  June  and  July.  She  is  like 
a young  matron  whose  beauty  is  shadowed  with 
the  coming  sheaves.  The  corn  stands  tasselled 
in  dark  green  platoons.  When  the  wind  throws 
up  the  long  blades,  they  are  like  the  gonfalons  of 

79 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

the  coming  fall.  If  you  rub  the  tassels  in  your 
palms,  they  will  hint  to  you  of  Bourbon  and  leave 
a delicate  flavour  of  sea-coal  fires  with  jolly  fel- 
lows taking  off  their  furs  to  make  a night  of  it. 
The  showers  will  die  off  in  slanting  rains.  How 
different  from  the  thunderous  gallopades  of  July, 
with  July’s  quick-firing  guns  and  riotous  trans- 
formations of  golden  sunshine  and  dissolute  sun- 
sets of  roses  and  wine.  The  drop  of  the  summer 
apples  has  already  a melancholy  thud,  like  the 
fall  of  a curtain,  and  the  south  winds  are  queru- 
lous at  the  slightest  provocation,  and  wheeze  if 
there  is  a cranny  or  a rusty  weathercock.  If  you 
look  closely,  you  will  see  some  premonitory  yellow 
leaves  already  on  the  maples.  The  sumach  is 
beginning  to  bleed,  and  the  sides  of  the  tomatoes 
toward  the  sun  gleam  through  the  rank  vines 
with  the  late  fires  of  the  garden  already  kindled. 

I was  lying  in  the  grass,  attending  strictly  to 
my  regimen  of  rest  and  listening  to  the  little 
hurdygurdy  of  the  cricket,  when  I heard  on  the 
still  air  the  far-away  throb  of  a brass  band.  I 
put  my  ear  down  close.  There  was  no  mistaking 
it  — I felt  the  rhythmical  beat  of  the  drum  and 
caught  the  attenuated  blare  of  the  cornet.  They 
were  playing  cc  Listen  to  the  Mocking-bird.” 
I wondered  that  that  old  stuffed  melody  could 
hop  out  of  its  glass  case  and  travel  down  the  still 
air  so  many  miles  in  that  lively  style.  There 
was  a wandering  circus  at  Spelldown,  and  the 
band  was  playing  the  people  into  a matinee. 

I was  like  a Prohibitionist  who  is  eating  mince 
80 


LISTEN  TO  THE  MOCKING-BIRD 


pie  with  brandy  in  it.  I felt  the  pristine  stir  in 
me  and  could  smell  the  tan-bark  ring.  I was 
rather  proud  of  this  childish  impulse.  I coaxed 
myself  to  believe  that  I could  hear  the  dear  old 
clown  with  the  whitened  face  say,  “ Here  we  are 
again,”  and  wake  the  elemental  soul  with  that  old 
Eleusinian  mystery,  cc  What  makes  more  noise 
than  a pig  under  a gate  ? ” This  is  coming  back 
to  the  very  porridge  of  our  first  lunch  of  humour. 
To  know  just  how  good  brandy  is  in  mince  pie, 
one  must  be  a Prohibitionist.  I suppose  the  zest 
of  anything  depends  on  the  deprivation,  if  not  on 
the  prohibition.  I remember  that  a great  trav- 
eller once  said  to  me,  that  the  much-vaunted  cata- 
ract of  the  Ganges  was  a poverty-struck  puddle, 
but  that  in  a country  where  there  was  no  water,  a 
puddle  looked  like  an  inundation. 

cc  c Listen  to  the  Mocking-bird,’  ” I said  to  my- 
self, as  I leaned  up  against  a tree  and  braced  my- 
self to  watch  the  clouds  roll  by,  a task  which  I 
have  reduced  to  perfection.  These  sweetish  run- 
agate tunes  come  waltzing  down  our  recollections, 
heavy  with  the  dew  of  idle  associations.  Could 
there  anywhere  be  such  a fresh  innocent  sensation 
as  to  take  Charlie  and  Griselle  to  the  circus  and 
fill  my  unselfish  nature  up  with  their  delight ! 
“ Gosh  to  hemlock,”  I exclaimed,  with  my  new 
provincial  ardour,  “ it  is  engendered.  Griselle  will 
come  out  with  an  extra  crisp  muslin  and  a new 
ribbon,  and,  maybe,  put  on  her  high-heeled  shoes, 
and  rub  bergamot  in  that  furzy  hair  of  hers.  All 
the  yokels  of  Spelldown  will  wonder  who  I am  in 

8 1 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


a negligee  shirt  and  baseball  shoes  ; and  every  time 
Griselle  laughs  and  claps  her  hands  I will  smell 
the  spring  lilacs  again.” 

Now,  this  was  going  back  to  first  principles. 
Talk  about  renewing  one’s  youth,  — it  would 
be  renewing  one’s  infancy.  It  isn’t  often  that  a 
man  of  forty  gets  the  opportunity  to  play  at  Paul 
and  Virginia  and  have  the  robins  come  and 
cover  him  up  so  that  he  will  not  recognize  his 
own  sentimentalism.  To  be  a real,  honest,  rural 
swain  for  a while  and  have  a maid  hang  innocently 
on  your  arm — gosh  to  hemlock  — what  would 
there  be  left  for  the  pellucid  emotions  but  to  buy 
an  accordion  and  learn  to  play  “ I Would  Not 
Live  Always  ” and  “ Listen  to  the  Mocking- 
bird ” on  it?  These  pipings  of  Arcady  come  to 
a man  when  his  turtle-dove  is  a mocking-bird, 
and  he  has  acquired  the  art  of  leaning  up  against 
a tree  properly,  and  watching  the  season  go  by, 
instead  of  the  afternoon  belles  under  the  club 
window.  Charlie  and  I might  even  try  to  crawl 
under  the  canvas  if  the  pristine  impulse  did  not 
give  out;  at  all  events,  we  could  eat  gingerbread 
on  the  same  plane  of  enjoyment. 

Presently  Charlie  and  Griselle  made  their  ap- 
pearance. “ Did  you  hear  the  circus  band  ? ” I 
asked.  “The  show  stays  over  to-morrow.” 

“ And  we  ought  to  take  Griselle,”  exclaimed 
the  instinctive  Charlie,  beginning  to  clap  his 
hands  and  jump  up  and  down  in  a kind  of  St. 
Vitus’s  dance. 

“ We  ? ” I inquired,  with  a mock  parental 
82 


LISTEN  TO  THE  MOCKING-BIRD 


gravity,  trying  to  veil  my  own  exuberance. 
“ We,  Comrade  ? ” 

“Yes,”  said  Comrade,  “but  we  can’t.  She’s 
going  on  a picnic,  and  I’ve  got  to  go  with  her.” 

I intimated  that  picnics  could  wait — circuses 
never  did. 

But  it  seems  that  the  picnics  of  Spelldown  are 
arranged  with  consummate  tact  to  offset  the 
circus.  There  are  two  churches  in  the  town  — 
the  Methodist  and  the  Dutch  Reformed.  They 
wait  till  the  advance  agent  of  the  show  bills  the 
town  and  the  cross-roads,  then  they  sound  their 
clarion  call  to  the  two  Sunday-schools  to  get  ready 
to  take  to  the  woods.  The  Methodists  huddle 
the  children  all  out  on  one  day  and  give  them  ice- 
cream enough  to  lay  them  up  for  the  next  day, 
and  then  the  Dutch  Reformed  drive  out  the  other 
battalion.  In  consequence  of  this  ingenious  ar- 
rangement, it  is  doubtful  if  any  of  the  well-bred 
children  of  Spelldown  ever  listened  to  the  mock- 
ing-bird. 

“ So  you  have  invited  Charlie  to  your  picnic  ? ” 

“ I thought,”  replied  Griselle,  evasively,  “ that 
he  would  like  to  go  with  all  the  other  children.” 

“ I dare  say.” 

“ But  he  said  he  would  have  to  speak  to  you 
about  it.” 

“ What  he  meant  was  that  it  would  be  a good 
idea  to  invite  me  too.  But  don’t  you  think  it 
would  be  pleasanter  if  you  accepted  my  invitation, 
and  we  all  went  to  the  circus  ? ” 

She  declined  promptly.  There  were  reasons 
83 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

that  she  kept  out  of  her  words,  but  they  got  into 
that  little  toss  of  her  head,  and  she  looked  quite 
Florentine  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway  with  her 
dress  lifted  ready  for  flight.  Sometimes  I thought 
Rossetti  could  have  written  hen  He  never  could 
have  painted  her,  she  wouldn’t  stand  still  long 
enough. 

Evidently  circuses  did  not  lure  her,  and  she 
had  promised  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hanks  or  Janks  or 
somebody  to  take  care  of  a contingent  of  “ young 
ones  ” and  keep  them  away  from  the  circus. 

Come  to  think  it  all  over,  she  was  right,  and  I 
told  her  so.  A clean-minded  little  fellow  like 
Charlie,  starting  out  to  avoid  my  pitfalls,  would  be 
better  off  with  her  at  a picnic,  eating  some  of  the 
jelly-cake  that  everybody  was  sure  to  bring,  than 
at  the  circus,  getting  his  clothes  all  stained  with 
pink  lemonade. 

“ Perhaps,”  suggested  Griselle, cc  you’d  be  better 
off  yourself.”  I acknowledged  to  her  that  I had 
a real  curiosity  to  see  a country  picnic.  I could 
not  for  the  life  of  me  understand  the  raison  d'etre 
of  it.  Why  men  and  women  who  lived  in  the 
country  all  the  year  round  and  were  pretty  well 
saturated  with  it  should  suddenly  take  it  into 
their  heads  to  enjoy  it  by  the  card,  was  beyond 
me.  It  really  looked  to  me  as  though  Farmer 
Jones,  when  he  wanted  to  express  his  mad  exu- 
berance, went  over  and  ate  his  dinner  on  Farmer 
Smith’s  field.  I could  understand  folk  in  the  city 
going  slumming  and  getting  up  vivisection  clubs, 
and  when  thoroughly  blase  taking  nitrous  oxide 


LISTEN  TO  THE  MOCKING-BIRD  - 


gas  and  having  their  teeth  out.  These  things  are 
at  least  departures,  but  to  eat  the  same  jelly-cake 
and  hard-boiled  eggs  in  a different  field  seems  to 
me  to  lack  what  the  critics  cal1  motif.  Of  course 
nobody  can  tell  till  he  tries  it  just  how  superior 
as  a moral  discipline  a picnic  is  to  a circus  ; and  a 
country  picnic,  I said,  is  about  the  only  thing  I 
haven’t  tried. 

She  looked  at  me,  I thought,  with  just  a flicker 
of  commiseration,  as  if  a man  who  had  tried  every- 
thing could  hardly  be  worth  so  much  curiosity  as 
she  felt. 

I answered  her  look.  cc  Perhaps  it  isn’t  quite 
as  bad  as  that.  But  I have  had  a foolish  desire 
to  see  all  there  is  in  life,  and  like  the  man  in  the 
play,  I looked  into  Vesuvius  and  there’s  nothing 
in  it.” 

“ Not  even  ashes  ? ” 

“Well,  yes  — some  ashes,  but  nothing  else. 
It  leaves  an  aching  sense  of  goneness.  You  see, 
we  city  folk  fall  into  the  habit  of  regarding  life  as 
a side-show,  and  if  it  doesn’t  keep  up  the  pace, 
we  get  dissatisfied.” 

“ It  must  be  dreadfully  tiresome.” 

“ Oh,  everybody  does  his  best  to  get  just  as 
tired  as  he  can.  Do  you  know,  I thought  I’d 
come  up  here  for  a change,  where  nothing  goes 
by  but  the  seasons,  and  they  seem  to  kiss  their 
hands  to  you  and  say  they  will  come  again. 
There  is  no  such  promise  in  the  side-show. 
The  same  spring  bonnets  never  come  back. 
The  same  play-bill  is  never  seen  twice.  Nobody 

85 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

says  an  revoir.  It’s  hurrah,  boys,  and  good-by. 
Now  you  have  the  same  picnic  every  year,  do 
you  not,  and  the  same  jelly-cake  ? ” 

Griselle  had  a delicious,  spontaneous  laugh. 
I know  a soubrette  who  would  give  a hundred 
dollars  a link  for  it. 

“ Some  day,”  I said,  “ I should  like  to  have 
Gabe  bring  you  to  the  city  when  I am  there,  and 
I’ll  show  you  the  kind  of  picnics  we  have.  I’ll 
take  you  to  Coney  Island.  You  never  were  in 
the  city,  were  you  ? ” 

“ Oh,  yes.  When  I was  studying  music, 
Cousin  Ed  Yerkes  took  me  with  his  sister  to 
hear  the  music  in  cThe  Old  Homestead.’” 
“Music  in  cThe  Old  Homestead  * ? ” I said 
inquiringly.  “ What  music  ? ” 

“Why,  they  sung  ‘The  Old  Oaken  Bucket’ 
in  it  beautifully.” 

“ So  they  did,  so  they  did,”  I said  pathetically, 
and  stopped  to  wonder  how  a girl  could  leave  the 
real  oaken  bucket  at  her  door,  and  go  a hundred 
miles  to  enjoy  a property  bucket.  Still,  this 
knowledge  made  me  feel  that  she  was  human  like 
myself.  “ How  you  would  enjoy  the  wooden 
milch  cow  and  the  painted  dairy-maid  from  Mul- 
berry Street  at  Coney  Island,  after  you  had 
milked  your  real  cows.” 

Like  all  my  kind,  I felt  a protective  and  pro- 
prietary interest  in  such  innocence.  I suppose 
Griselle  intended  that  I should.  The  upshot  of 
it  was  that  Charlie  and  I toddled  to  her  picnic, 
and  I was  her  willing  slave  for  one  day.  In  try- 

86 


LISTEN  TO  THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

ing  to  recall  some  of  its  bright  specialties,  I find 
that  my  recollection  of  it  is  much  like  the  recol- 
lection of  an  orchestral  performance,  and  you 
know  that  if  the  performance  is  a good  one,  you 
do  not  remember  anything  in  particular.  No  one 
tries  to  make  a diagram  of  a warm  glow.  Only 
a general  sense  of  wagon-loads  of  farm  babies  in 
white,  and  boisterous  lads  and  lassies  with  base- 
ball bats  and  croquet  mallets,  all  exulting  in  out- 
doors as  if  they  had  never  seen  it  before.  It  was 
very  pleasant  to  see  young  life  decant  itself  in 
this  simple  manner,  making  the  fields  effervesce 
and  the  thickets  bubble.  But  in  the  recollection 
of  it  is  a pervading  gleam  of  Griselle  in  her  leg- 
horn hat,  keeping  up  a quiet  authoritative  bustle 
like  the  Lady  of  the  Manor,  directing,  giving  me 
whispered  orders  that  were  imperative,  but  very 
demure,  making  me  fetch  water,  climb  trees  to 
fasten  ropes  up  for  swings,  everybody  else  regard- 
ing me,  I thought,  with  a slight  awe.  It  gave 
me  a great  deal  of  quiet  satisfaction  to  take  my 
orders,  especially  when  they  were  confidential, 
and  tacitly  to  concede  her  right  to  direct  me, 
though  how  she  got  the  right,  or  when  it  was 
conferred,  I’m  blessed  if  I know. 

Altogether  I entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 
thing  with  a zest  that  surprised  me,  and  when 
the  sun  was  setting,  we  all  bundled  into  our 
wagons  and  went  off  homeward,  making  the 
highway  ring  with  our  homely  songs. 

But  that  night  when  Charlie  and  I were  in  bed, 
I asked  him  how  he  had  enjoyed  himself. 

87 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

“ I think.  Dad/’  he  said,  “ that  we  would  have 
had  a good  deal  more  fun  if  we  had  gone  to  the 
circus  and  left  Griselle  out  of  it.  She’s  too 
smart.” 

“ Do  you  think  so,  Comrade  ? ” 

“Yes.  She  told  me  to  go  and  play  — that 
she’d  take  care  of  you.” 

“ Hark,”  I said,  “ there’s  the  band.  The 
show  is  over.  They  are  playing  c Listen  to  the 
Mocking-bird.’  ” 


88 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  CONVALESCENCE  OF  A CRACKED  HEART 

1HAVE  tried  to  tell  how  I was  frightened  into 
my  vacation  by  a physical  warning,  and  by  the 
Doctor  who  took  it  up  and  added  to  it.  He 
called  it  the  disease  of  civilization,  and  said  the 
trouble  was  that  it  worked  unseen  at  the  centre, 
so  that  you  never  suspected  its  ravages  until  you 
collapsed  suddenly.  He  held  out  a single  plank 
of  rescue,  and  I ran  over  it  with  amazing  alacrity 
into  the  wild  woods  where  I could  escape  from 
civilization  for  a year.  Fortunately  for  me,  my 
Doctor  was  a rational  man,  one  of  those  rare  doc- 
tors whd  do  not  weigh  life  in  an  apothecary’s 
scales,  or  insist  that  you  can  cut  every  domain  of 
it  with  a knife.  He  told  me  that  my  E string 
was  a little  weak  (the  Doctor  plays  the  violin,  or 
did  in  his  younger  days),  and  was  screwed  up  too 
tight.  “ Of  course,”  he  said,  “ it  is  going  to  snap 
unless  you  let  the  rest  of  the  instrument  down  to 
a lower  key.  In  a word,  you  must  get  out  of  the 
orchestra.” 


89 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

If  there  is  anything  that  an  apparently  robust 
man  of  large  appetites  and  energetic  brain  particu- 
larly dislikes,  it  is  to  snap.  I suppose  that  he 
can  contemplate  fading  away  and  dwindling  out 
with  complacency,  but  there  is  something  dis- 
reputable in  falling  down  dead  at  a moment  of 
supreme  exultation  or  of  conceded  triumph.  One 
does  not  enjoy  the  prospect  of  being  found  dead 
in  his  bed,  or  being  carried  out  of  the  opera  feet 
first  by  the  ushers,  in  one’s  dress-coat,  with  the 
boutonniere  on  one’s  breast  looking  so  superflu- 
ous, and  the  wide-open  eye  so  helpless.  Man  is 
here  like  a sick  animal  — he  prefers  to  keep  some 
unobserved  place  and  take  time  to  adjust  his  dying 
with  some  sense  of  relevancy. 

But  what  can  a man  do  when  the  bell  sounds  ? 
Somewhere,  suddenly,  like  a vivid  flash,  comes 
the  summons  out  of  a clear  sky  : £C  Here  you  are, 
now  — - presto,  are  you  ready  ? ” He  isn’t  ready, 
of  course.  I have  read  of  men  who  were  ready, 
but  as  a business  man  I never  saw  one  who  was. 
To  get  this  dire  summons  in  the  middle,  perhaps, 
of  a smart  remark,  one-half  of  which  must  die  out 
on  blue  lips,  and  know  beforehand  that  admira- 
tion is  to  be  petrified  into  pity,  hurts  a man’s 
pride.  It  is  curious,  but  we  prefer  death  as  a 
torturing  jailer  rather  than  as  a highwayman  with 
a club,  who  leaps  at  us  out  of  unsuspected  coverts. 
I am  free  to  acknowledge  that  when  I got  my 
premonitory  summons  I took  to  my  heels  like  a 
panic-stricken  horse.  Then,  during  the  months 
of  retirement,  of  which  I have  tried  to  tell,  there 

90 


A CRACKED  HEART 


came  gusts  of  Gargantuan  laughter  from  my  lusty 
doctor.  It  was  like  June  thunder,  full  of  bellow- 
ing promise.  But  he  graduated  his  medicinal 
mirth  just  as  the  season  graduates  its  thunders. 
In  June  he  muttered  far  down  on  the  horizon. 
In  July  he  pealed  from  the  zenith.  In  August 
he  exploded,  for  by  that  time  he  found  that,  weak 
as  my  heart  might  be,  I had  will-power  enough 
to  follow  his  directions  to  the  letter.  I had  wiped 
out  the  world  for  the  time  being  and  come  down 
to  mush  and  milk  and  first  principles.  I knew 
very  well  that  he  did  not  believe  that  I was  capa- 
ble of  it.  I had  heard  him  say  more  than  once 
that  there  was  no  escape  for  a man  who  drugged 
himself  with  society. 

One  morning  I received  a letter  from  him,  say- 
ing he  was  coming  up  to  take  a week’s  loafing 
in  my  cabin  and  examine  my  tongue.  I jumped 
with  a glad  apprehension  and  considerable  solici- 
tude. That  old  Lucullus  coming  here  for  a 
week.  What  would  I do  with  him  in  this  pov- 
erty-struck hut  ? Where  would  I put  his  silk 
shirts  and  pajamas  ? How  pamper  his  capacious 
stomach  ? How  fill  his  enormous  capacity  for 
comradeship?  It  was  all  very  well  for  Charlie 
and  me,  who  were  roughing  it  for  our  health,  and 
could  sleep  on  a board  and  eat  cold  pork  between 
sea-biscuit,  and  wash  ourselves  in  the  brook,  but 
visitors  — and  a visitor  who  was  an  epicure,  a 
connoisseur,  and  a social  lion ! Oh,  I’d  tele- 
graph him  and  stop  it,  but  before  I could  get 
a telegram  down  to  Spelldown  he  arrived.  I 

9i 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

heard  his  vibrations  on  the  road  above  the  rattle 
of  Gabe’s  wagon  before  I saw  him.  ££  We’re  in 
for  it,  Charlie,”  I cried.  “ Put  away  the  jack- 
knives  ” (we  had  been  making  some  chip  yachts 
for  a race  at  the  milldam) ; ££  we’ve  got  to  enter- 
tain company.” 

When  the  portly  form  of  the  Doctor  reached 
our  door,  and  he  sprang  lightly  enough  out  of 
Gabe’s  wagon,  dressed  in  a loose  outing-shirt, 
duck  trousers,  and  hob-nailed  shoes,  his  broad, 
handsome  face  beaming  with  good-nature,  I for- 
gave him  ; and  when  he  lifted  Charlie  up  in  the 
air,  held  him  at  arm’s  length,  and  looked  at  his 
tanned  and  freckled  face  and  sparkling  eyes  with 
unmistakable  admiration,  I cried  : — 

££  Nothing  the  matter  *with  him,  Doctor.” 

He  came  at  me  with  both  hands,  hit  me  a 
good  fraternal  whack  in  the  breast  with  his  fist, 
and  shouted : ££  How’s  that  cracked  heart  of 
yours  r 

££  Doctor,”  I said  deprecatingly,  ££  I can’t  ac- 
commodate you  in  this  dugout.  Heavens,  you 
do  not  want  to  sleep  on  a shakedown  and  eat 
army  rations.  Better  let  Gabe  drive  you  over  to 
the  £ Folly.’  ” 

C£  No,  I thank  you,”  he  said.  ££  I slept  on  the 
ground  and  ate  army  rations  before  you  had  your 
second  teeth  ; besides,  when  I have  a patient  that 
I am  interested  in,  I never  stop  to  consider  what 
floor  he  is  on.  Take  my  coat  and  satchel. 
Charlie,  you  young  rascal,  bring  me  a camp-chair 
out  here  where  it  is  cool,  and  a match.  Now, 

92 


A CRACKED  HEART 


then,  what  are  you,  Timon,  Orlando,  or  Hamlet? 
How  do  you  sleep  ? Do  you  know  ? ” 

“ No.  I have  lost  interest  in  the  operation.” 

“ Good.  Can  you  eat  without  a menu,  and 
stop  without  tipping  somebody  ? Good.  Does 
salt  junk  at  certain  ecstatic  moments  look  to  your 
purged  vision  like  the  staff  of  life  ? Good.  You 
can’t  spread  the  morning  paper  out  beside  your 
plate  and  cram  your  brain  and  your  stomach  at 
the  same  time  ? Good.  You’ll  live  to  be  eighty- 
five  if  you  keep  on.” 

“ Oh,  you’d  better  tell  me  the  plain  truth  at 
once.  I can  stand  it.” 

“ Dreams  ? ” 

“ Every  day.  Can’t  quite  shut  off  the  rubbish 
of  hopes  and  ambitions.” 

“ Day  be  hanged.  How  about  the  night  ? ” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know  anything  about  the  night. 
My  system  appears  to  have  lost  all  interest  in 
that.” 

“ Then  you’re  all  right.  Night  is  the  only  im- 
portant part  of  a man’s  existence.  It’s  the  only 
time  when  he  ought  to  stop  kicking  against  the 
Eternal.  If  your  nights  are  clean  and  empty,  the 
unimportant  days  will  take  care  of  themselves. 
Man  is  such  an  infatuated  suicide  that  Nature  has 
to  drug  him  once  every  twenty-four  hours  to  keep 
him  from  destroying  himself.  Great  Scott,  what 
a luxury  it  is  to  get  rid  of  a coat  once  more  ! 
Have  you  got  another  brier-wood  pipe  ? Thank 
you.  Say,  old  fellow,”  he  continued,  as  he  took 
the  match  from  Charlie  and  lit  the  pipe,  cc  did  it 

93 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

ever  occur  to  you  that  man  is  an  instrument,  very 
nicely  adjusted,  but  played  upon  so  continuously 
by  himself  that  he  gets  jangled  ? When  he  takes 
his  hand  off  at  night,  the  Great  Tuner  steps  in 
and  fixes  up  the  strings.  What  kind  of  tobacco 
do  you  call  that  ? ” 

I continued  apologetic  and  tried  to  explain  away 
my  humble  accommodations  and  prepare  him 
for  the  monastic  penance  of  being  my  guest.  He 
only  stripped  off  his  necktie,  unbuttoned  his  shirt, 
exposing  his  brawny  and  pilous  neck.  “ Now, 
old  chap,  Em  going  to  take  my  shoes  off  if  you 
don’t  object.  I want  to  get  my  feet  into  that  cool 
grass.” 

I understood  very  well  what  this  luxury  of 
looseness  was.  He  walked  up  and  down  in  the 
wire  grass,  smoking,  a fine  picture  of  dishevelled 
dignity.  The  grass  was  not  very  cool  at  that  time 
of  day,  but  the  delight  of  believing  that  it  was  and 
the  greater  delight  of  freeing  himself  momentarily 
from  the  constrictions  of  conventional  life  was 
unmistakable. 

“You  can  never  know,”  he  afterward  said  to 
me,  “how  tired  a doctor  gets  of  his  species.  It 
isn’t  that  he  only  sees  the  worst  side  of  it,  but  he 
must  contemplate  the  infatuated  determination  of 
his  race  to  be  invalids,  and  the  cool  assumption 
of  the  race  that  doctors  are  made  only  to  relieve 
it  of  some  of  the  consequences  of  its  own  folly. 
That  is  what  makes  a man  of  my  temperament 
desire  to  get  somewhere  at  times  where  there  are 
others  than  his  own  species.” 

94 


A CRACKED  HEART 


“ I should  like  to  know/’  I asked,  <c  if  you  in- 
clude me  in  your  species.” 

“ Well,  hardly.  You’re  a good  deal  of  a curi- 
osity. The  only  patient  I ever  had  who  did  what 
I told  him.  I was  so  incredulous  that  I had  to 
come  up  here  and  see  it  with  my  own  eyes.  You 
deserve  to  live  for  ever.” 

<c  There  wasn’t  much  merit  in  it.  You  scared 
me  into  it.” 

He  laughed. 

“ You  were  smart  enough  to  rouse  my  will- 
power,” I said,  “ to  a panicky  point  of  renuncia- 

* j y 

tion. 

“ Will-power.  There  you  go.  I’ve  heard 
about  will-power  till  it  makes  me  weary.  The 
whole  finite  world  has  gone  crazy  on  will-power. 
There  is  a new  quackery  in  the  market  made  to 
fit  it,  which  prescribes  will-power  instead  of  mor- 
phine. Exert  your  God-given  volition,  it  cries, 
and  rise  above  physical  evil.  But  not  one  of 
its  quacks  can  add  or  subtract  a heart-beat  by 
will-power,  or  contract  an  involuntary  muscle. 
Will-power  is  the  sovereign  slave-driver  of  the 
material  world.  It  removes  mountains  ; but  I’ll 
be  hanged  for  a mountebank  if  it  can  remove  re- 
morse or  set  the  jig  for  an  overridden  heart.  Man 
will  go  on  with  his  will-power  till  he  has  used  up 
all  the  material  forces  of  this  globe,  and  then,  if 
he  cannot  get  to  any  other,  he  will  die  of  ennui. 
I always  say  to  a patient  of  mine : c Don’t  give 
me  any  of  that  will-power  nonsense,  if  you  please. 
Just  take  your  hand  off  the  machine  for  a little 

95 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

while,  and  perhaps  it  will  regulate  itself.  Did  it 
ever  occur  to  you  that  there  might  be  some  will- 
power in  the  universe  lying  around  loose  that 
wasn’t  yours?’  If  I can  get  a patient  to  stop  self- 
focussing  himself  for  a while,  I feel  quite  certain 
that  some  kind  of  regulative  energy  will  drift  into 
him.  Now,  then,  what  time  do  you  lunch  ?” 

“ Charlie,”  I said,  “ put  on  your  apron  and  set 
out  the  hard-boiled  eggs  and  crackers.” 

The  Doctor  was  an  old  campaigner,  and  one 
who  has  been,  never  quite  gets  over  the  habits  of 
it.  He  had  slept  in  the  snow,  rolled  up  in  a blue 
overcoat,  so  he  told  me,  when  campaigning  with 
Crook,  and  had  eaten  raw  pork  between  hardtack 
for  breakfast,  when  the  pork  had  to  be  chopped 
with  a hatchet,  and,  said  he,  “ I remember  those 
savage  meals  pleasantly,  and  have  forgotten  all  the 
dinners  that  I ate  at  the  Holland  House  and  Del- 
monico’s.  After  all,  there’s  nothing  so  relative  as 
our  gustatory  zest.  In  fact,  all  our  appetites  are 
conditional.  A man  enjoys  a meal  very  much  as  he 
enjoys  female  society — it  depends  on  the  scarcity.” 
“ And  the  liberty,”  I said.  “ There  is  nothing 
so  delightful  as  to  be  able  to  do  as  you  please 
without  fear  of  interruption.” 

“ Very  fine  for  a change,  old  chap,  but  make 
no  mistake,  it  will  not  do  for  a steady  thing.  I 
cannot  imagine  any  condition  of  existence  so  hor- 
ribly full  of  ennui  as  absolute  freedom  would  be. 
Fancy  all  obligations,  all  the  dear  old  fetters,  the 
very  preservative  weight  of  an  atmosphere  of 
duty,  removed,  and  the  monition  of  c Thou  shalt 

96 


A CRACKED  HEART 


not’  abrogated,  and  man,  like  a fatherless  Ish- 
maelite,  wandering  about  in  the  desert  of  his  own 
desires.”  He  called  in  the  door  to  Charlie: 
“ Don’t  forget  the  cold  pork  and  molasses.”  Then 
he  resumed  his  walk  in  the  grass.  “ It  will  not 
do,  old  fellow,”  he  said ; “ we  must  have  orbits, 
and  gravitation  to  keep  us  in  them,  or  there  would 
be  universal  high  jinks.  If  you  don’t  mind,  I’m 
going  to  take  these  suspenders  off.” 

“ Look  here,  Doctor,”  I said,  “ if  you  will  take 
off  your  philosophy  with  your  other  duds  and 
come  back  to  your  proper  business  and  tell  me 
what  you  think  of  my  condition,  you  will  do  me  a 
favour.  Perhaps  I am  cured  and  can  go  back  with 
you.” 

“You  want  to  begin  all  over  and  get  another 
warning.” 

“Then  I’m  not  cured.” 

“ You’re  convalescent  — that’s  all.  You  must 
keep  this  jig  up  for  one  year.  I do  not  propose 
to  let  up  on  my  prescription,  if  you  expect  me  to 
carry  you  through  to  a good  old  age.  You  see, 
I’ve  got  a good  deal  at  stake  in  this  matter.  If 
I succeed  in  remaking  you,  I intend  to  start  in 
on  a new  line  of  practice  and  open  an  office  in  the 
Yellowstone  Park.  You’ve  been  a pretty  good 
boy  so  far.  I did  not  believe  you  could  do  it. 
In  fact,  you’re  the  first  man  I ever  met  who  could 
give  up  female  society  entirely  and  take  to  the 
woods  on  sanitary  principles,  and  you  will  make 
a shining  example  when  you  go  back  to  Broadway 
and  Wall  Street.” 


97 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

At  that  moment  Charlie  came  to  the  door  and 
shouted,  <c  Say,  Dad,  where  do  you  suppose  Gri- 
selle  keeps  the  pepper  and  salt?” 

I remember  that  the  Doctor,  who  looked  very 
absurd  in  his  bare  feet,  came  over  and  stood  in 
front  of  me,  and  said  with  as  cavernous  an  intona- 
tion as  he  could  command,  “ Who  in  thunder  is 
Griselle  ? ” 


* c^8 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  LIGHT  IN  A DARK  CELL 

1HAVE  never  been  shut  up  in  a dark  cel), 
but  I have  talked  with  men  who  have  been, 
and  I can  readily  understand  why  a prolon- 
gation of  such  punishment  brings  insanity  with 
it.  The  best  of  us,  who  have  what  we  call  in- 
ternal resources,  break  down  at  the  sudden  loss 
of  our  environment.  We  lose  our  bearings. 
The  points  of  the  compass  disappear.  Our  re- 
lation to  things  is  disturbed.  We  begin  to  grope 
after  an  adjustment.  We  turn  and  devour  our- 
selves. To  be  lost  in  one’s  own  abyss  is  insanity. 
Really,  it  is  like  the  fabled  act  of  the  helpless 
reptile  that  plunges  its  fangs  into  its  own 
body.  Very  few  minds  can  stand  the  test  of 
being  driven  in  on  themselves.  And  yet  it  is  in 
those  cloisters  that  we  carry  with  us  that  we  often- 
est  run  across  ourselves  as  we  grope  in  the  dark, 
and  then,  mayhap,  we  sit  down  and  become  our 
own  father  confessors. 


99 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

Nothing  can  be  more  interesting  than  the  ex- 
perience of  a man  who  has  lived  for  years  on  the 
periphery  of  life,  and  is  suddenly  plunged  into 
the  dark  of  his  own  being.  It  is  not  unlike  that 
other  experience  which  most  of  us  have  had  at 
some  time,  of  waking  up  in  a dark  room  at  night 
and  feeling  that  cold  shadow  of  consciousness 
creeping  upon  us  that  we  do  not  know  where  we 
are.  In  such  experiences  you  try  to  remember 
where  the  window  is  or  was,  you  try  to  make 
memory  take  the  place  of  cognition,  and  under- 
take to  reconstruct  your  place  in  the  universe. 
But  for  the  time  being  you  have  lost  your  own 
trail.  Then  there  is  a slight  cold  shudder  in  the 
soul  for  a moment.  A voice  cries  out,  <c  I am 
lost.”  It  is  only  a passing  spasm  of  the  sub- 
consciousness,  but  you  never  forget  it.  I think, 
myself,  it  is  a prescient  apprehension  by  the  soul, 
and  pre-figures  in  a dumb  way  the  experience 
that  awaits  all  souls  when  they  pass  from  one 
condition  of  existence  to  another.  I recall  that 
once,  at  what  purported  to  be  a spiritual  seance, 
an  unexpected  message  was  received  from  what 
claimed  to  be  a spirit  — one  who  had  been  a very 
dissolute,  but  withal  a very  lovable  man.  It 
came  among  a number  of  incoherent,  impossible, 
and  puerile  messages,  and  threw  a momentary 
chill  on  the  party.  The  question  that  had  been 
put  was,  cc  Where  are  you,  Bob  ? ” and  the 
answer  was,  “ Wandering  in  the  cold  and  dark 
between  time  and  eternity.” 

A man  can  try  the  dark-cell  experiment  by 
100 


THE  LIGHT  IN  A DARK  CELL 

being  his  own  jailer  and  locking  himself  up  in 
the  wilderness,  as  I did.  At  least  so  I thought 
when  I executed  the  feat  of  banishing  myself 
from  the  mode  of  existence  to  which  I had  be- 
come habituated.  For  a month  I went  through 
very  much  the  same  experience  that  attends  the 
waking  up  in  a strange  dark  room.  I had  left 
my  environment  behind  me,  not  because  I had 
lost  the  desire  for  it,  but  because  it  had  betrayed 
the  intention  of  killing  me  ruthlessly  and  sud- 
denly. One  of  two  changes  was  offered  me.  I 
was  to  abandon  my  existence  or  my  habits.  If 
one  should,  with  the  magic  power  of  Aladdin’s 
lamp,  transport  a man  from  the  seething  Board 
of  Brokers  and  set  him  down  in  the  still  waste 
of  the  Syrian  desert,  the  change  would  not  be 
more  absolute  than  was  mine.  The  Doctor’s  pre- 
scription was,  u Come  back  to  Hecuba.”  I 
thought  at  the  time  that  I had  the  choice  of  leav- 
ing this  world  or  staying  in  its  most  endurable 
dark  cell,  and  I chose  to  stay.  Doubtless  it  was 
the  pusillanimity  of  a man  of  the  world.  The 
only  result  that  is  worth  telling  is  this  — that, 
if  a man  manages  it  properly,  he  can  rob  the 
dark  cell  of  all  its  horrors,  and  get  comfortably 
out  of  the  world  without  bothering  the  under- 
taker. But  why  pursue  that  figure  any  further  ? 
The  dark  cell  belongs  exclusively  to  the  punitive 
side  of  man’s  hallucination.  My  experiment  at 
first  was  very  much  like  the  dearth  of  midnight, 
for  the  glare  and  shock  of  the  world  had  been 
shut  off.  But  no  sooner  had  I accepted  the  loss 

IOI 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

obediently,  and  the  dark  of  isolation  had  encom- 
passed me,  than  out  came  the  stars,  one  by  one, 
and,  as  my  little  world  receded,  the  universes 
whispered  to  me  across  the  eternal  gaps.  Those 
sibylline  voices  are  very  restful,  when  your  ear  is 
once  purged  of  the  artificial  clang  and  has  recov- 
ered its  primal  vibrations. 

Had  I been  an  artist  or  an  entomologist,  my 
equipment  would  have  enabled  me  to  defy  the 
ennui  of  solitude.  But,  alas,  I was  neither.  I 
could  not  come  to  Nature  like  the  gifted  robber- 
artist  who  steals  her  secrets  and  lugs  them  off  to 
his  gallery,  like  so  much  plunder,  with  the  hiero- 
glyphs rubbed  off.  That  admirable  marauder 
whose  mission  it  is  to  inform  Nature  how  she 
ought  to  do  it  is  sustained  in  swamps  and  deserts 
by  a missionary  fervour.  I had  not  even  the  war- 
rant of  that  other  despoiler,  the  sportsman,  who 
corrects  Nature  with  a gun,  and  wounds  and  kills, 
even  when  he  cannot  eat,  with  a robust  masculine 
joyousness.  That  superior  quality  which  in  the 
entomologist  is  called  analysis,  and  which  can  box 
the  compass  of  a bug  when  he  is  properly  pinned 
down,  with  the  dismembering  acumen  of  a musi- 
cal critic  who  tears  the  quivering  semi-quavers 
from  a symphony,  and  lays  them  out  to  dry  in  a 
criticism  — that  wonderful  gift  has  been  denied 
me.  I was  myself  pinned  down  by  Nature  to  a 
dull,  obedient  synthesis.  I was  born  so  barren 
of  the  divine  mastership  that  I believed  most 
musical  criticisms  were  the  attempt  to  explicate 
an  implication — that  music  was  not  made  to  be 

102 


THE  LIGHT  IN  A DARK  CELL 


analyzed  or  explained,  any  more  than  a prayer, 
but  to  be  accepted  and  obeyed.  Such  a spirit  as 
mine  would  never  have  conquered  the  earth.  I 
acknowledge  it.  The  only  question  is,  could 
such  a spirit  understand  the  earth,  and  would  the 
world  say  anything  confidential  to  it  ? I was 
under  constitutional  bonds  not  to  interfere,  but  to 
listen.  I was  looking  for  nepenthe.  Something 
said  to  me  it  is  not  a drug,  but  an  adjustment. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  Doctor.  I was  not  to  disturb 
anything  in  the  laboratory. 

I dare  say  I astonished  my  new  environment 
both  of  animate  and  inanimate  nature.  Perhaps 
it  was  not  accustomed  to  such  a spirit  as  mine. 
Now  that  I look  back  at  the  experiment,  I can 
fancy  Nature  saying,  “What  have  we  here?  Is 
this  our  lord  and  master,  or  has  an  invalid  Francis 
of  Assisi  come  out  of  Wall  Street;  does  not  want 
to  put  our  birds  in  cages  and  our  flowers  in  a her- 
barium to  corroborate  his  own  theories  ; does  not 
want  to  cut  anything  down  or  tear  anything  up  ; 
can  he  be  entirely  human  ? Perhaps,  when  he 
dies,  if  he  ever  should,  he  will  refuse  to  be  put 
into  a casket,  and  will  let  us  get  at  him  atom  by 
atom,  and  lift  him  benignly  along  in  our  proces- 
sion. Treat  him  gently,  O winds,  and  enter  softly 
into  him,  O sunshine,  and  all  you  myriad  messen- 
gers of  the  air,  breathe  your  inarticulate  secrets  to 
him.” 

Such  indeed  was  the  compensation,  softly  to 
glimmer  like  star-points  in  my  exile,  as  the  months 
slipped  by.  And  what  was  the  secret  ? Dull 

103 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

mortal  that  I am,  it  was  told  me  in  effluence,  but 
not  till  long  afterward  did  I find  it  written  on  the 
deep  pages  of  my  experience,  like  the  embroidery 
of  God  in  the  Milky  Way  and  in  the  marsh.  I 
have  tried  many  times  since  to  get  that  secret  into 
words,  but  words  are  so  brittle  that  they  break 
down  helplessly  with  the  weight  of  a truth  that  is 
like  an  atmosphere.  There  are  some  secrets,  like 
the  ether,  for  which  words  have  not  been  invented. 
One  day  when  I thought  I had  caught  the  feat  of 
fitting  the  ether  to  syllables,  I wrote  down,  “ Be- 
fore freedom  can  be,  obedience  is.”  It  had  all  the 
ethereal  disadvantages  of  an  abstraction  trying  to 
perform  a concrete  trick.  How  barren  the  prop- 
osition was  beside  the  Psalm  that  had  sung  itself 
into  my  comprehension  through  all  those  months. 
H ow  far  away  from  the  ineffable  eloquence  which 
had  said  without  words:  <c  Behold,  all  things  but 
man  are  under  law,  and  man  must  come  volunta- 
rily under  it  before  he  can  be  part  of  the  scheme. 
To  him  alone  it  is  allowed  to  return.  So  do  we 
live  and  obey  and  die  that  he  may  learn  the  les- 

y y 

son. 

Upon  a man’s  capacity  to  emit  a glow-worm  ray 
of  his  own  will  depend  the  darkness  of  his  cell  and 
the  limitations  of  it.  There  are  men  and  women 
who  have  so  perverted  their  natures  that  they  live 
entirely  through  their  superficies,  and  that  kind 
of  life  which  furnishes  continual  external  stimula- 
tion converts  them,  in  time,  to  hollow  resounding 
shells,  silent,  indeed,  unless  they  are  beat  upon. 
We  all  know  men  the  greater  part  of  whose  lives 

104 


THE  LIGHT  IN  A DARK  CELL 


are  spent  looking  at  the  procession.  They  would 
be  of  about  as  much  use  to  themselves  in  a dark 
room  as  would  a mirror.  They  are  decrepit  in- 
fants, who  must  be  fed  continually  by  the  spoon 
of  circumstance.  Whenever  things  lose  their 
motion,  they,  too,  lose  theirs,  as  if  they  were  mere 
cogs  in  the  social  machinery.  Their  experience  is 
about  as  interesting  as  a book  of  old  playbills. 
That  was  what  Goethe  meant  when  he  said  that 
the  ordinary  man  is  content  to  see  something 
going  on.  He  is  content  because  he  does  not 
have  to  go  on  himself. 

Probably  conscience  has  a great  deal  to  do  with 
a man’s  disinclination  to  be  left  alone  with  him- 
self. When  one  has  nobody  to  look  at  but  him- 
self, he  is  apt  to  be  not  only  bored  but  frightened. 
One’s  mistakes  and  follies  always  look  more  for- 
midable when  one  is  alone.  Conscience  is  like  a 
photographer  — it  shuts  off  the  general  glare,  gets 
the  light  focussed  and  subdued,  and  out  comes  the 
expression  that  belongs  to  you.  I confess  that  at 
first  I acted  like  the  ordinary  man  (that  I am).  I 
hankered,  pined,  growled,  complained,  and  looked 
over  my  shoulder  at  the  disturbance  that  I missed. 
I was  dreadfully  bored  because  nothing  was  going 
on.  And  mind  you,  the  immeasureable  proces- 
sion of  the  universe  was  jogging  right  along  as 
before.  Not  a cog  had  been  slipped  in  the  tre- 
mendous plan,  but  I felt  that  it  had  because  I was 
no  longer  on  exhibition.  There  is  a Chinese 
adage  which  says  that  our  hopes  are  our  friends, 
but  our  desires  are  our  children ; and  there  was  I, 

105 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

like  the  old  woman  who  lived  in  a shoe,  sur- 
rounded by  my  brood,  all  clamouring.  It  was  my 
heroic  duty  to  starve  them  to  death. 

But  such  is  the  gentle  efficacy  of  the  gold  cure 
under  the  autumn  leaves  that  if  one  will  only 
stay  in  the  sanitarium  of  outdoors  long  enough 
and  keep  still  and  listen,  he  will  begin  to  see 
some  things  more  clearly.  I was  trying  to  think 
of  a similitude  that  would  convey  to  you  some 
idea  of  those  kindly  intimations  that  are  made  by 
the  external  world  when  one  is  thoroughly  recep- 
tive, and  I recalled  a trivial  incident  which  had 
for  me  at  the  time  a peculiar  eloquence.  Charlie 
and  I had  passed  the  winter  resolutely  in  that 
hut,  growing  very  intimate  indeed,  and  spending 
many  precious  hours  huddling  over  our  wood 
fire  during  the  long  nights  when  the  storms 
raged  and  the  hut  creaked  and  trembled.  We 
had  been  very  brave,  I am  sure,  to  have  stood  it 
out,  but  the  winter  was  long,  and  we  were  wait- 
ing and  pining  for  the  spring.  The  days  and 
weeks  crawled  sluggishly  along.  We  counted 
them  regularly  on  the  calendar,  and  watched  with 
childish  eagerness  that  receding  sunshine  on  the 
wall  which  was  an  index  of  the  solstice.  We 
longed  for  the  end  of  it  all.  One  night  I opened 
the  window  to  fasten  the  shutter.  I think  it  was 
in  April.  It  was  very  still,  and  I heard  the  first 
faint  peep  from  the  milldam.  Such  weak,  tim- 
orous, thin  little  elfin  voices,  peep,  peep.  But 
there  was  a keen,  arrowy  heralding  in  the  note. 
The  earth  was  stirring.  I called  Charlie.  “ What 

106 


THE  LIGHT  IN  A DARK  CELL 


is  it  ?”  he  said.  “ It’s  spring,  Comrade,”  I replied. 
And  then  we  had  a little  war-dance  in  which  the 
d°g 

I never  heard  those  tiny  birth-pangs  of  the 
season  afterward,  without  a little  quickening  of 
the  pulse.  Once  you  get  on  intimate  terms  with 
this  Not  Me,  who  strums  her  zithers  and  thun- 
ders her  open  diapasons,  she  will  have  many 
pleasant  surprises  for  you.  You  will  discover, 
by  degrees,  that  she  is  a blood  relation.  She 
recognizes  the  same  Father  and  knew  him  before 
you  did.  After  that  you  shake  hands  with  the 
trees  and  salute  the  winds  familiarly  as  they  pass. 
Then  you  learn,  possibly,  that  Nature  is  not 
aesthetic.  She  struggles  just  as  hard  as  any  artist 
after  an  unseen  prototype,  but  it  is  because  she 
is  under  orders.  She  is  as  austere  as  a Puritan, 
in  her  duty,  and  never  by  any  possibility  bothers 
with  sentimentalism.  We  always  bring  that  non- 
sense to  her  in  our  kits  and  our  albums.  She 
stands  up  to  her  work  with  a rigid  invincibility 
that  makes  an  aesthete  shiver,  and  offers  up  her  off- 
spring as  unquestioningly  as  did  Abraham,  and  so 
well  drilled  are  all  her  countless  myriads  that 
there  is  not  a blade  of  grass  hidden  from  the  eye 
that  does  not  strive  as  hard  as  it  can  to  live  and 
die  for  something  other  than  itself. 

So  it  was,  that  in  the  smoky  confines  of  our 
far-away  hut,  swept  by  bleak  storms  or  shone  on 
by  yellow  sunshine,  Charlie  and  I sat  through 
the  seasons,  humbly,  like  the  squirrels  that  we 
often  heard  under  our  floor,  playing  at  bowls  with 

107 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

their  hickory  nuts.  We  were  learning  to  wait 
and  getting  strong  and  calm  with  the  sure  Balm 
of  Gilead,  for  the  time  when  we  were  to  sally 
forth  and  take  up  our  fight  uncomplainingly  and 
faithfully,  like  the  dumb  friends  we  were  to  leave 
behind. 


108 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  GLORY  OF  THE  WAY 

AFTER  a prolonged  hot  spell  in  late  August, 
we  usually  get  that  transformation  scene  that 
has  cool  reminders  in  it  of  the  golden  age. 
A shower  in  the  afternoon  hisses  and  splashes 
on  the  hot  earth,  and  then  dies  out  lingeringly 
in  what  the  farmers  call  a “ drizzle-drozzle.” 
It  rains  well  on  through  the  night  softly.  You 
can  almost  hear  the  muskmelons  and  tomatoes 
saying  thanks.  But  the  sun  comes  up  unobscured 
in  the  morning,  burning  in  a fathomless  blue  that 
you  seldom  see  anywhere  outside  of  the  Orient, 
and  calling  to  mind  that  tongue-twisting  line  of 
Baildon’s,  — 

“ Palely  blue  lucent,  one  great  undulent  gem,” 

only  it  is  not  cc  palely,”  but  pronouncedly  violet 
in  the  unflecked  gulfs  of  it.  This  is  the  annun- 
ciation of  Fall.  It  is  usually  a very  showy  cere- 
monial, and  a very  old  one,  from  which,  long  ago, 

109 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


Attica  caught  the  feast  of  Demeter  and  mingled 
jewels  with  the  sheaves  in  joyful  celebration.  But 
man  could  not,  even  in  his  Grecian  moods,  when 
he  loaded  Ceres  with  poppies  and  gems,  do  more 
than  mimic  with  his  stage  properties  the  whelming 
brilliancy  and  necromancy  of  such  a morning. 

Ceres  is  preserved  to  us  only  in  philology. 
She  comes  to  us  through  Germany  as  Hertha,  out 
of  which  grew  our  word  “ earth,”  and  it  is  the 
earth  that  flashes  her  with  all  her  gems  across  our 
vision  after  the  late  rains.  The  largesse  of  it  at 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning  is  dazzling.  Every 
tendril  wears  a tiara.  The  currant  bushes,  that 
could  never  decorate  themselves  with  anything 
more  pretentious  than  strings  of  garnets,  now  blaze 
with  diamonds  and  burn  with  rubies.  The  mean- 
est weed  that  grows  is  heavy  with  diadems.  There 
is  nothing  so  poor  that  it  cannot  throw  back  an 
iridescent  greeting  to  the  sun. 

This  prismatic  jubilate  lasts  only  half  an  hour. 
The  winds  come  up  and  gather  the  queen’s  jewels, 
and  the  shadows  creep  along  and  put  out  the 
lights.  But  even  then,  one  ceremonial  merges 
into  another  in  confluent  evanescences.  Nothing 
that  is  beautiful  stays.  Even  the  shadows,  that 
have  such  a rich  wine-coloured  depth  at  this  time, 
pull  themselves  out  in  a cycle,  and  the  cool  winds 
are  hastening  seaward.  The  very  charm  of  it  is 
its  transitoriness.  The  queen  does  not  always  sit 
on  exhibition  with  her  jewels  on.  It  is  well  that 
man  cannot  stay  the  festival.  He  would  fasten 
it,  if  he  could,  and  make  a museum  or  a mauso- 


no 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  WAY 


leum  of  it.  He  is  so  afraid  of  the  divine  pro- 
cesses and  so  blind  to  the  glory  of  going  on  that 
he  tries  to  petrify  his  own  perishing  body  when 
the  life  is  out  of  it.  Never  does  he  show  himself 
such  a dog  in  the  manger  as  when  he  embalms 
himself. 

Nature  is  forever  emitting  a pleasant  irony  at 
our  scale  of  values,  trying  to  tell  us  that  it  is  not 
that  which  endures,  but  that  which  is  transformed, 
that  best  answers  her  equitable  purpose.  One 
can  easily  fancy  that  in  some  other  condition  of 
existence  than  ours,  the  evanescent  best  conforms 
to  the  enduring,  seeing  that  existence  in  any  con- 
ceivable state  cannot  be  static,  but  must  still  be 
going  on.  That  was  rather  a pretty  conceit  of 
Swedenborg's  that  the  best  spirits  in  another  world 
continually  grow  young.  I say  a £C  conceit,”  but 
now  I think  of  it,  how  do  I know  it  is  a conceit  ? 
With  our  scale  of  values  we  lapse  continually  into 
a primitive  admiration  for  magnitude.  Great  dis- 
tances, measureless  periods  of  time  — how  Tyn- 
dall revelled  in  one  and  Proctor  in  the  other,  and 
how  awe-struck  their  audiences  were  at  the  effective- 
ness of  meaningless  magnitude.  But  there  is  a 
continual  intimation  in  Nature  that  mere  bulk  and 
prodigiousness  are  not  ranked  so  high  in  her  scale 
of  values  as  in  ours.  She  certainly  endows  a pis- 
mire with  more  communal  intelligence  than  an 
ox,  and  spends  as  much  ingenuity  on  a mushroom 
as  on  an  oak.  Who  can  say  with  accurate  knowl- 
edge that  our  measurement  of  time  by  the  revo- 
lutions of  the  earth  fits  all  conditions  of  existence 


hi 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


and  extends  beyond  man  to  unseen  communities 
which  round  up  their  affairs  and  die  between 
sunrise  and  sunset?  Who  shall  say  that  our 
subdivision  of  hours  bears  any  reference  to  the 
compacted  lives  that  measure  their  destinies  by 
moments  ? Do  we  not  get  occasionally  in  dreams, 
and  still  more  vividly  in  those  marvellous  syn- 
theses of  thought  and  feeling  that  attend  sudden 
disaster,  as  for  example  in  the  premonition  of 
drowning,  some  startling  evidences  that  the  fac- 
ulties of  the  mind  can  transcend  time  altogether  ? 
Who  shall  deny  that  the  fennel  and  June  grass 
and  the  downy  gerardia,  that  have  their  succes- 
sions both  of  beauty  and  duty  under  the  spreading 
oak  branches,  and  have  matured  and  given  up 
their  stored  substance  year  after  year  to  the  arsenal 
of  the  earth,  have  not  been  toiling  like  the  coral 
mite  to  help  build  the  overshadowing  bank  of 
greenery  ? Read  Darwin’s  biography  of  the  earth- 
worm. 

That  side  of  our  natures  which  gives  heed  only 
to  the  prodigious  is  very  apt  to  become  theatric, 
and  occasionally,  like  the  manager  of  the  show, 
try  to  impress  us  with  the  magnitude  rather 
than  the  worth  of  the  exhibition. 

I recall  an  incident  of  the  last  year  of  my  aca- 
demic days.  Trivial  as  it  is,  it  fits  pleasantly  in 
here.  Our  professor  of  physics,  an  amiable  old 
fellow,  but  slightly  tinctured  with  Buchner,  took 
some  kind  of  delight  in  belittling  man  and  his 
planet.  Now  and  then  it  would  creep  out,  a 
mild  pessimism,  that  took  the  shape  of  illustra- 

1 12 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  WAY 


tion  or  passing  reference.  One  day  he  called  our 
attention  to  the  late  Dr.  John  W.  Draper’s  book, 
tc  The  History  of  the  Conflict  between  Religion 
and  Science,  ’ which  had  just  appeared  and  was 
attracting  much  attention.  It  had  made  a deep 
impression  on  him,  and  nothing  would  do  but 
he  must  read  a page  of  it  to  the  class,  as  a fine 
example  of  insight  and  eloquence.  The  eminent 
author  had  turned  aside  for  a moment  from  his 
historical  thesis  to  show  that  man  belonged 
among  the  atoms  and  was  startlingly  insignificant 
when  compared  to  the  celestial  bulks  ; and  this  is 
what  our  professor  read  us,  with  solemn  face  and 
deep  tremulous  voice:  — 

Seen  from  the  sun,  the  earth  dwindles  away  to  a mere 
speck,  a mere  dust-mote  glistening  in  his  beams.  If 
the  reader  wishes  a more  precise  valuation,  let  him  hold 
a page  of  this  book  a couple  of  feet  from  his  eye  and 
then  let  him  consider  one  of  the  dots  or  full  stops. 
That  dot  is  several  hundred  times  larger  in  surface  than 
is  the  earth  as  seen  from  the  sun.  Of  what  conse- 
quence then  can  such  an  almost  imperceptible  particle 
be  ? One  might  think  that  it  could  be  removed  or  even 
annihilated  and  never  be  missed.  Of  what  consequence 
is  one  of  those  human  monads  on  the  surface  of  this  all 
but  invisible  speck,  of  whom  scarcely  one  will  leave  a 
trace  that  he  has  ever  existed  ? Qf  what  consequence 
is  man,  his  pleasures  or  his  pains?  — Draper’s  cc  Con- 
flict,” International  Scientific  Series,  p.  174. 

The  unanswerable  interrogation  with  which  our 
professor  rounded  up  this  quotation,  a kind  of 

n3 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

complacent  defiance,  did  not  quite  dispel  a feeling 
in  the  class  that  there  was  an  aching  void  in  the 
rhetoric.  You  know  how  a class  of  quick  instinc- 
tive young  minds  will  be  annoyed  by  a galloping 
sophism  that  they  cannot  put  their  fingers  on. 
It  is  like  that  one  mosquito  that  blows  his  small 
but  mellow  horn  in  the  dark,  and  you  slap  the 
wrong  place  and  wish  you  might  see  him.  A 
rather  stupid  and  vacuous  silence  fell  on  the  class, 
as  if  the  professor  had  straggled  into  moonshine, 
but  nobody  could  tell  how  or  where.  Then  up 
rose  Bannister,  dear  old  Bannister — he  who  had 
not  only  translated  but  interpreted  the  Fourth 
Eclogue  of  Virgil  between  prayers  and  praxis, 
as  easily,  so  it  seemed  to  us  dullards,  as  he  had 
feathered  a stroke  oar.  His  handsome  face  wore 
the  livery  of  outdoors.  His  brown  eye  flashed 
a little  with  the  light  that  comes  regularly  on  land 
and  sea.  He  was  one  of  those  intuitional  fellows 
who  occasionally  rush  past  facts  to  a truth.  He 
was  continually  arriving  by  cutting  across  lots. 
He  was  made  up  of  moods  of  indifference  and 
moments  of  inspiration.  As  he  stood  there 
fumbling  his  text-book  of  biology  and  feeling 
after  words  to  express  himself,  I was  fresh  and 
imaginative  enough  to  believe  at  the  moment 
that  he  was  the  voice  that  we  had  all  lost. 

“ On  behalf  of  insignificant  man,”  he  said,  “ of 
whom  I am  the  most  insignificant  example,  I beg 
to  put  in  a disclaimer,  and  with  all  respect  to  Dr. 
Draper  to  protest  against  his  method  of  measur- 
ing the  value  of  things  by  the  distance  at  which 

1 14 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  WAY 

you  get  away  from  them.  Seen  from  the  sun,  of 
what  value  is  the  earth  ? Seen  from  Saturn,  of 
what  value  is  the  sun  ? Seen  from  Alpha  Cen- 
tauri,  of  what  value  is  Saturn  ? If  you  take 
space  enough,  of  what  value  is  anything  ? I 
don’t  know  how  it  is  with  this  class,  but  I for 
one  cannot  make  a practical  application  of  the 
brutal  scale  which  Dr.  Draper  calls  c a more  pre- 
cise valuation.’  According  to  such  an  inverse 
appraisement,  one’s  affection  and  admiration  for 
one’s  own  mother  will  depend  on  her  not  leaving 
the  room.  If  she  should  go  to  the  country,  of 
what  value  would  such  an  insignificant  speck  be  ? 
I think  we  ought  to  tremble  for  Moses  and  Plato 
and  Shakspere  as  they  diminish  along  their  starry 
orbits.” 

I believe  some  of  us  laughed  with  just  the 
least  bit  of  malicious  exultation.  But  Bannister 
was  seriously  in  for  it.  He  flashed  up,  and  the 
words  began  to  fuse  and  flow. 

“ If  you  will  permit  me,  sir,”  he  said,  “ I lay 
last  night  on  my  back  on  a softly  undulating 
deck  and  listened  to  the  great  dialogue  between 
my  soul  and  the  universe.  I climbed  the  stair- 
way of  the  galaxies  into  fields  of  light  that  bil- 
lowed out  to  the  farthest  boundaries  of  space. 
I passed  flaming  suns,  all  journeying  on,  and 
swept  through  vortexes  of  whirling  worlds,  but 
it  never  occurred  to  me,  sir,  to  drag  a surveyor’s 
chain  with  me  and  stake  off  the  distances  for  the 
belittling  of  myself.  I confess  that  no  finite 
mind  can  take  this  flight  along  the  highway  of 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

creation  without  trembling  a little  at  the  glory 
of  the  way.  But  the  pilgrim  soul  will  feel  the 
fanning  of  his  own  wing,  and  the  inconceivably 
small  shall  rise  up  against  the  amplitudes  of  space, 
and  summon  with  a finite  will  a million  flashing 
messages  from  as  many  suns  and  register  them 
on  a retina  no  bigger  than  the  capital  O in  this 
book.  The  infinitesimal  commands  the  incalcu- 
lable. If  such  a soul,  feeling  itself  lost  in  an 
eternity  of  matter,  should  throw  the  interrogation 
of  the  Psalmist  into  that  flaming  vault  and  ask, 
c What  is  man  that  thou  shouldst  consider  him  ? ’ 
that  soul  has  but  to  listen,  and  the  answer  reaches 
across  the  centuries, £ Thou  hast  made  him  a little 
lower  than  the  angels.’  I am  content,  sir,  to 
travel  with  that  answer  not  only  across  the  years, 
but  across  the  chasms  of  the  universe,  and  some- 
where on  the  journey  I shall  be  sure  to  meet  that 
kindred  thought,  emitted  by  another  monad  who 
saw  in  man  something  greater  than  the  leagues 
he  traversed,  and  who  exclaimed,  c In  apprehen- 
sion, how  like  a god.’  ” 

Then  we  all  broke  out  in  applause,  in  which  the 
professor  generously  joined.  Afterward  he  had 
the  hardihood  to  say  in  a sly  way  that  he  knew 
how  to  wake  up  Bannister’s  theological  idiosyn- 
crasy. 

It  was  this  kind  of  high-stepping  improvisation 
that  distinguished  Bannister.  He  came  from 
Kentucky,  where  one  can  still  detect  in  the  per- 
fervid  declamation  of  her  gifted  sons  some  reso- 
nances of  Henry  Clay,  and  hear  words  pacing  along 

1 16 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  WAY 


the  old  Appian  Way  of  eloquence.  All  efforts 
to  make  Bannister  academic  were  more  or  less 
fruitless.  He  would  not  or  could  not  dig  labori- 
ously at  the  text-books.  If  he  could  not  absorb 
a theme  along  the  lines  of  his  emotions,  the  labour 
of  it  discouraged  him.  “ What  is  the  use  of  wast- 
ing time  with  human  guesses/’  he  said  to  me, 
“ when  one  can  converse  with  the  truth  itself,  by 
putting  his  hand  in  that  of  the  solitudes  and  walk- 
ing humbly  with  the  silences?  After  all,  Nature 
confides  the  ultimates  that  Aristotle  only  groped 
at.”  I grew  to  love  Bannister  very  much  during 
that  last  year  of  our  companionship,  but  it  needed 
the  after-perspective  to  understand  him.  I often 
thought  then  that  he  was  a seer.  I can  see  now 
that  he  was  only  an  orator.  But  his  oratory  was 
strangely  affluent  with  the  fecundity  and  waste  of 
Nature.  Those  of  us  who  heard  him  afterward, 
when  he  held  multitudes  spellbound,  recall  how 
like  he  was  to  one  of  those  great  Western  rivers 
that  wind  sluggishly  along  in  narrow  channels, 
carrying  the  soil  with  them,  but  liable  at  any 
moment  to  whelm  their  banks  and  spread  dash- 
ingly into  broad  lagoons,  rich  with  floating  islands 
and  the  plunder  of  zones.  Then  it  was  that  his 
shoreless  volubility  rose  with  Miltonic  periods  and 
bellowed  grandly  through  the  deeps  of  time,  and 
his  emotions  swept  us  away  like  those  waves  that 
<c  o’erthrew  Busiris  and  his  Memphian  chivalry.” 
H ow  much  of  this  gift  was  the  bestowal  of  Isis 
herself,  when  he  had  lifted  her  curtain  lying  on 
his  back  under  the  stars,  who  shall  say  ? And 

ii? 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

yet  I cannot  quite  divest  myself  of  the  suspicion 
that  the  solitudes  had  given  him  grace  of  utter- 
ance. It  seems  to  be  the  lesson  of  natural  elo- 
quence that  Nature’s  educational  course  makes 
some  of  the  nobler  and  deep-buried  appetencies 
of  the  soul  imitate  the  grasses  of  the  field  and 
spring  their  tender  blades  in  waste  places.  More 
than  once  I have  noticed  that  those  speakers  who 
are  most  effective  have  studied  the  book  that  was 
never  written.  Eloquence,  unlike  wit,  feeds  itself 
in  unfrequented  glades.  The  American  savage, 
who  is  never  an  inventor  or  a philosopher,  is  very 
often  an  orator.  The  speeches  of  Red  Jacket  and 
Sitting  Bull  have  a large  Roman  vibration  like  the 
echo  of  a strong  voice  in  the  woods. 

In  those  academic  days  we  were  swept  off  our 
feet  by  successive  literary  waves.  We  had  Goethe 
freshets,  and,  later,  Carlyle  inundations,  when  we 
talked  in  the  Chelsea  dialect  and  called  our  pro- 
fessors “Sea-Green”  and  “ Teufelsdrockh,”  and 
tried,  absurdly  enough,  in  our  dormitories,  to 
“ welter  in  the  immensities  ” and  balance  the 
“Tartarian  darks”  on  the  tips  of  our  tongues. 
Then  there  was  a year  when  we  all  went  off  with 
Balzac,  and  neglected  everything  but  our  pipes 
and  beer,  in  making  obeisance  to  Parisian  analyses. 
But  Bannister  never  joined  in  the  fellowcraft 
worship  at  these  shrines.  Effloresce  as  he  might 
at  the  top,  his  roots  remained  fixed  in  the 
American  soil.  I believe  he  tugged  at  Goethe 
assiduously  and  plodded  through  the  “ Comedie 
Humaine,”  as  if  to  see  what  it  was  all  about. 

1 1 8 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  WAY 


But  it  was  no  use.  He  regarded  Goethe  very 
much  as  a Puritan  might  regard  a good  statue  of 
Buddha,  with  curiosity  and  awe,  but  without  a throb 
of  sympathy.  He  told  me  himself  that  when 
he  read  Balzac  he  felt  like  a man  who  had  been 
through  a vast  national  museum,  and  was  not  per- 
mitted to  bring  anything  away  with  him.  On  a 
little  shelf  in  his  room  he  had  a copy  of  Milton, 
a much-bethumbed  volume  of  Pascal’s  cc  Pensees,” 
and  a Shakspere,  with  the  regulation  mother’s 
Bible  that  could  be  found  in  all  our  rooms  with 
diligent  searching,  but  generally  poked  in  be- 
tween Dumas  and  Daudet.  From  that  small 
library  Bannister  drew  refreshment  that  we  knew 
nothing  of,  and  now  that  the  years  have  given 
me  a clearer  vision  of  Nature  and  man,  I can  see 
that  those  books  opened  vistas  to  him  not  unlike 
those  he  had  seen  when  lying  on  his  back. 

And  now  that  I have  run  afield  in  this  inex- 
cusable manner,  I ought  to  apologize.  I set  out 
to  exalt  the  small  things  and  have  not  said  a 
word  about  myself.  Thus  is  one’s  most  precious 
egotism  reduced  to  a postscript  when  he  remem- 
bers. I was  reminded  of  Bannister  by  the  rich 
August  hedgerows,  where  the  cardinal-flower  al- 
ready burns  and  the  fringed  gentian  will  follow  in 
unexpected  places,  and  the  smell  of  the  wild 
grapes  will  make  the  air  reel  with  a Grecian  tipsi- 
ness. All  these  wildings  of  Nature  have  disap- 
peared from  the  haunts  of  man.  He  plucks  them 
up  by  the  roots  and  plants  his  hard,  dry  chrysan- 
themums in  geometrical  dreariness. 

ii9 


IT  takes  ordinary  men  like  myself  about  forty 
years  to  learn  the  alphabet  of  living.  We 
start  in  with  a conquering  sword,  shouting 
cc  Excelsior,”  and  mistaking  intensity  of  emotion 
for  integrity  of  being.  At  ten  we  believe  all 
things  ; at  twenty  we  dare  all  things  ; at  thirty 
we  obtain  all  things ; at  forty,  we  question  all 
things.  If  we  arrive  at  fifty,  we  bow  our  heads 
and  are  silent.  We  have  arrived  with  many  scars 
at  either  a conclusion  or  a conviction.  If  by  any 
means  we  reach  a conviction,  it  will  be  shadowed 
by  an  enormous  waste  and  tinged  with  a reproach 
that  we  have  missed  the  preservative  equilibrium. 
Ghosts  of  a lost  condition  peer  and  smile  ironi- 
cally in  our  memories  and  glide  through  our 
dreams. 

I suppose  the  ultimate  punishment  of  man 
in  this  world  is  the  accomplishment  of  his  desires. 
In  looking  back  at  my  summer  in  the  solitary 

120 


ON  A PORCH 


woods,  I find  that  very  little  of  it  remains  but 
the  equable  and  uneventful  light  of  it.  If  1 try 
to  recall  what  was  disagreeable  or  annoying,  I 
have  to  refer  to  notes  made  at  the  time,  and 
those  notes  are  for  the  most  part  meaningless 
now  and  strangely  superfluous,  bearing  the  impli- 
cation that  the  annoyances  of  life  are  not  to  be 
preserved,  and  inferentially  that  the  forces  that 
make  up  real  life  preserve  themselves  without 
our  special  wonder.  How  trite  the  dear  old 
trees  were,  how  platitudinous  and  self-possessed. 
How  unoriginal  and  reiterative  were  the  seasons, 
doing  just  the  same  things  over  and  over  from 
the  beginning.  How  undemonstrative,  regular, 
and  plodding  the  sunshine  was,  how  incapable  of 
a new  departure.  In  our  callow  days  we  placed 
a Grecian  Aurora  in  our  sunrise.  She  always 
wore  a saffron  robe  and  came  out  of  a golden  pal- 
ace with  a torch  in  her  hand.  But  how  purely 
infantile  that  conception  is  to  the  ordinary  sage 
like  myself,  who  has  been  introduced  to  her  and 
enjoyed  her  homely  hospitality.  Instead  of 
being  a frisky  nymph,  calling  attention  to  her 
flights,  like  a ballerina  or  a Bernhardt,  she  is  an 
old  woman,  attending  to  her  regular  routine  with 
precise  decorum.  If  you  accept  that  similitude 
for  a moment,  it  will  grow  clearer  to  you  as  you 
remember.  It  was  the  old  woman’s  benign  regu- 
larity that  we  never  thought  of  at  the  time,  but 
that  was  an  awful  deprivation  when  it  was  gone. 
What  did  we  know  about  her  unseen  traction 
that  kept  us  planets  and  comets  in  our  courses, 

I 2 1 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

and  went  with  us  into  the  far-off  spaces  to  round 
our  orbits  and  bring  us  back  at  some  time  ? 
What  did  we  then  know  of  the  deposits  of  light, 
layer  upon  layer,  that  in  the  alchemy  of  serene 
love  was  to  turn  our  carbon  into  chlorophyl,  and 
make  a golden  age  for  us  in  the  bottom  of  our 
souls  ? 

When  I went  off  to  the  woods  with  my  one 
eight-year-old  scion,  I had  something  like  fifty 
thousand  exigent  things  on  my  mind  that  enlisted 
my  interest  and  demanded  concentration  of 
thought.  It  isn't  necessary  to  make  a list  of 
them.  Refer  to  your  own  schedule.  I was 
really  lopsided  with  events  and  sore  with  the 
world's  goings  on.  I used  to  get  up  in  the  morn- 
ing, heave  a sigh,  and  take  up  the  universal  load.  I 
had  to  sympathize  with  the  Armenians.  I had 
to  denounce  a Tory  Government.  I had  to  form 
a theory  of  the  latest  murder  mystery.  I had  to 
keep  my  eye  on  the  Berlin  market.  London 
and  Paris  were  tapping  at  my  window  before  I 
had  taken  my  coffee.  I had  to  circumvent 
Tracy,  and  outbid  Jackson,  and  balk  Williams. 
I had  to  make  more  money  than  I needed, 
because  there  were  several  fellows  who  had  more 
than  I had.  I had  to  keep  abreast  of  Wagner 
and  the  latest  novel,  or  I couldn’t  hold  my  own 
with  the  ladies  in  the  evening.  I had  some  inter- 
ests in  a mine  and  some  in  a railroad.  They  were 
not  fixed.  Nothing  was  fixed.  Uncertainty 
about  things  in  general  was  a devouring  stimu- 
lant. I was  getting  to  be  permanently  anxious 

122 


ON  A PORCH 


about  the  drift  of  everything.  In  such  a condi- 
tion, the  fine  spiculae  of  a man’s  sensibilities  get 
knocked  off.  I had  to  have  something  sharper 
each  day  to  keep  up  my  interest.  The  artificial 
vivacities  of  the  playhouse  were  growing  tiresome 
and  lacked  shock.  I noticed  that  wine  was  los- 
ing its  tang,  and  beauty  was  overdone.  Every- 
thing was  wearing  off  its  edges.  I needed  a new 
sensation. 

I found  it  in  a child,  a maid,  and  a yellow  dog. 
If  I had  found  it  in  Paris,  or  Baden,  or  in  moun- 
tain climbing,  or  in  jumping  off  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge,  it  would  have  been  conventional,  but 
would  not  be  worth  the  telling.  When  a man 
who  begins  to  find  that  absinthe  is  not  half  as 
strong  as  people  think  is  suddenly  put  on  milk 
diet,  he  has  the  best  chance  of  his  life  to  be  not 
only  original,  but  piquant.  At  least  he  discovers 
a lot  of  things  that  are  not  usually  thought  to  be 
worth  discovering.  We  start  life  with  a milk  diet. 
Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  there  is  a terrible 
irony  in  being  brought  round  to  it  again  by  the 
doctor  ? I suppose  you  are  familiar  with  a banal 
phrase  about  “ bringing  a man  to  his  milk.” 

If  I learned  anything  in  the  woods,  it  was  this  : 
that  the  true  piquancy  of  life  often  consists  in  get- 
ting rid  of  the  piquancy.  I thought  at  one  time 
that  I was  cut  out  for  a young  Napoleon  of  finance. 
Perhaps  I was,  but  I didn’t  know  how  to  catch 
eels  or  scrape  new  potatoes.  I wanted  to  operate 
largely,  but  I “ snapped”  and  became  tutor  to  my 
own  boy.  I used  to  look  around  disdainfully  for 

123 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

a combination  of  Hypatia  and  Maintenon  that  1 
might  fall  in  love  with  it,  and  I was  paralyzed  by 
a rustic  handmaiden.  I had  believed  that  an  in- 
tellect like  mine  would  assert  its  mastership  of  the 
world,  and  a yellow  dog  wagged  his  tail  at  me  with 
esoteric  authority.  As  for  the  Florentine  maid 
who  came  regularly  and  beamed  round  us,  I am 
bound  to  say  now  that  she  was  the  sunshine  of 
many  rainy  hours  and  left  layers  of  impalpable 
light  in  our  recollections.  It  was  providentially 
ordered  that  she  should  drop  out  of  the  clouds, 
as  it  were,  without  any  prevision  on  our  part.  If 
I had  offered  to  pay  her  for  her  services,  she  would 
have  vanished  offended.  It  was  a neighbourly 
arrangement,  unmarred  by  any  contracts.  She 
could  just  as  well  as  not  run  over  and  look  after 
things  ; “ a child  like  that  should  not  be  left  alone 
in  the  woods,”  she  said ; so  I agreed  that  she 
should  keep  one  eye  on  Charlie.  I say  one  eye, 
because  even  while  I made  the  proposition  there 
was  a non-committal  twinkle  in  the  other. 

There  is  not  a blase  man  living  who  has  not  a 
niche  in  his  constitution  for  a Gretchen,  and  there 
is  not  a Gretchen  who  will  not  come  some  time, 
like  a song  sparrow,  and  twitter  in  it,  to  fly  away 
again  when  she  gets  through.  This  circumam- 
bient freshness  had  begun  to  build  a nest  in  my 
heart  before  I knew  it.  I don’t  believe  she  knew 
it  herself.  It  was  a general  instinct  of  nidihcation 
on  her  part,  and  I suppose  that  such  nests  began 
to  take  form  wherever  she  lit.  It  is  worth  men- 
tioning because  it  was  part  of  the  resurgence  of 

124 


ON  A PORCH 


past  conditions  under  a milk  diet.  I understand 
now  that  you  cannot  fasten  yourself  down  to  curds 
and  whey  without  waking  up  the  Strephon  who 
has  been  biding  his  time  in  your  bones,  and  find- 
ing yourself  going  about  at  times  with  an  oaten 
pipe  that  you  do  not  know  what  to  do  with. 

The  first  month  I called  Griselle  “ my  young 
lady  ” with  a fine  sense  of  reserve.  The  second 
month  I called  her  “ Griselle  ” with  an  easy  sense 
of  compromise.  The  third  month  I occasionally 
addressed  her  as  “ my  dear  ” with  guarded  pater- 
nal composure,  and  as  nobody  started  at  it,  I 
adopted  that  phrase.  By  the  time  I had  recov- 
ered my  appetite  so  that  I could  eat  a hunk  of 
bread  with  school-boy  zest,  and  would  not  have 
flinched  if  it  had  been  spread  with  New  Orleans 
molasses,  I began  to  discover  traits  of  character 
in  Griselle,  which  was  very  much  like  my  discov- 
ering that  the  sun  rose  and  set,  and  the  brook  water 
ran  down  hill,  — two  facts  that  I had  never  before 
observed  with  interest.  The  young  woman  did 
not  belong  to  my  social  domain,  but  whether  those 
traits  were  paradisaical  or  merely  primitive,  I did 
not  stop  to  inquire.  The  light  that  glimmered 
was  tenuous,  but  it  came  from  a great  distance  like 
starlight.  It  nourished  dreams. 

Things  had  come  to  this  pass  when  the  Doctor 
arrived  at  the  cabin  to  join  me  in  a week's  savagery, 
as  he  called  it,  and  to  come  back  to  first  principles. 
No  better  man  to  give  me  lessons  existed.  He 
showed  me  the  masculine  way  of  it ; how  to  throw 
a fly  ; how  to  eat  tomatoes  off  the  vines  like  apples, 

125 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

without  even  salt ; how  to  roast  corn  in  the  ashes; 
how  to  study  sociology  over  an  ant-hill ; how  to 
sleep  on  fir  boughs  and  make  raw  potato  salad ; 
how  to  skin  bullheads,  which,  by  the  way,  you 
could  not  tell  from  weakfish  when  he  fried  them. 

I opened  my  mind  to  the  Doctor,  as  we  smoked 
our  pipes  under  melancholy  boughs. 

££  What  do  you  think  of  that  young  woman, 
Griselle  ? ” I asked  with  studied  carelessness. 

cc  Good,  healthy,  and  rather  pretty  country 
wench,”  he  replied,  “but  I have  not  thought  about 
her.  Let  me  advise  you  not  to.” 

cc  Why  not  ? Is  she  not  part  of  the  scheme  ? ” 
££  Yes  ; her  scheme.” 

cc  Absurd.  You  do  her  great  injustice.  She 
has  no  more  scheme  than  a chipmunk.” 

cc  You  are  falling  in  love  with  her,  my  son.  I 
noticed  it  almost  as  soon  as  she  did.” 

££  Supposing  such  a preposterous  thing  possible, 
would  it  be  altogether  unnatural  or  imprudent  ? ” 
££  Highly  natural  and  decidedly  imprudent.” 

££  She  is  very  fond  of  Charlie.  Genuine  mater- 
nal instinct.  Think  of  the  boy.” 

££  Let  him  marry  her  when  he  comes  of  age.” 
££  Seriously,  would  it  not  be  a good  thing  for 
me  to  contemplate  some  such  person  with  a view 
to  his  future  ? ” 

££  What  does  the  young  lady  say  to  the 
scheme  ? ” 

££  She  doesn’t  know  anything  about  it,  of 
course.” 

££  Figs  ! She  probably  knows  all  about  it.” 
126 


ON  A PORCH 


“ I have  not  spoken  a word  to  her.” 

“It  was  not  necessary.” 

“ If  she  had  any  suspicion  of  my  serious  in- 
tentions she  would  have  shown  it.” 

“ Then  she  would  not  be  a fresh,  ingenuous 
thing.  You  don’t  know  them.  They  never  tell 
their  secrets  even  to  themselves.  They  keep 
them  locked  up  in  a casket  like  jewels,  and  if 
they  ever  take  them  out  to  look  at  them,  they 
lock  the  door  and  turn  the  gas  down  first.” 

“ Try  and  be  practical  a moment  to  accommo- 
date me.  I admire  the  young  woman’s  qualities 
of  mind  and  heart,  and  I sometimes  feel  a desire 
to  rescue  them.  What  are  you  laughing  at  ? ” 

“ I am  laughing  at  the  unexpected  success  of 
my  treatment.  This  exceeds  anything  that  I 
hoped  for.” 

“ What  exceeds  it  ? ” 

“ The  triumphant  manner  in  which  you  have 
adapted  yourself  to  the  infant  and  the  yellow 
dog,  and  renewed  your  youth.  Say,  if  you  can 
do  this  every  twenty-five  years,  you  will  live  to 
be  a hundred.” 

“You  are  disposed  to  treat  the  matter  flip- 
pantly. It  isn’t  of  vital  importance,  and  I’ll 
say  no  more  about  it.” 

“Yes,  it  is.  It  is  simply  beautiful.  It  crowns 
my  theory  with  a new  wreath.” 
cc  Oh,  hang  your  theory.” 

“No,  no.  I expected  to  make  a man  of  you 
physically,  and  I’ll  be  hanged  if  the  treatment 
hasn’t  made  a youth  of  you.  Talk  about  elixir! 

I27 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

Sees  traits  of  mind  and  character  and  wants  to 
mould  them  in  a higher  sphere.  Lovely,  lovely, 
in  four  months  too.  Hang  me  if  I don’t  get  a 
cabin  up  here  myself  and  restore  my  unbounded 
belief  in  the  therapeutic  sex.  You  wouldn’t  mind 
if  I wrote  the  case  up  for  the  County  Medical 
Association,  would  you  ? No  names  mentioned.” 

“ Yes.  I object.  You  don’t  understand  the 
case  at  all.” 

“ Don’t  I ? Would  you  like  me  to  make  a 
prognosis  ? ” 

“ Certainly  not,  as  you  do  not  understand  the 

jy 

case, 

cc  Pardon  me  — ” 

<c  Pardon  me,  Doctor.” 

I believe  we  both  scowled  a little  at  each 
other,  and  then  the  Doctor  broke  into  a laugh. 

“ If  you  had  not  got  mad,”  he  said,  c<  I should 
have  doubted  my  theory.  The  next  thing  to  do 
is  to  get  jealous.  Oh,  I went  through  this  when 
I was  eighteen.  When  a man  goes  through  it  at 
forty-four,  there  is  hope  for  him.  You  ought  to 
be  proud  of  my  treatment.” 

Something  like  a comic  coolness  ensued  for 
half  a day,  and  we  “ sir’d”  each  other.  Then 
it  broke  down,  and  we  both  laughed  it  off,  but 
I am  bound  to  say  that  the  Doctor  made  no 
allusion  to  the  affair  when  the  girl  was  present, 
though  he  noticed  her  with  a critical  interest. 

My  acquaintance  with  Griselle  grew  in  its  own 
unobtrusive  way  so  slyly  that  I can  hardly  tell 
where  it  began.  I think  that  perhaps  I came 

128 


ON  A PORCH 

nearer  to  understanding  her  and  even  to  admiring 
her  during  the  few  hours  I spent  with  her  on  the 
porch  of  the  Hotchkiss  cc  Folly.”  The  nymph 
passed  into  the  woman  during  those  lazy  summer 
hours  when  she  was  not  flitting  before  my  eyes, 
but  was  in  sober  repose,  listening  to  me.  I trace 
it  all  back  to  that  old  porch,  and  therefore  I shall 
have  to  tell  you  about  it:  It  was  the  common 
kind,  twelve  feet  wide,  fifty  feet  long,  roofed  and 
shingled.  Viewed  from  above,  it  was  difficult  to 
tell  where  the  house  ended  and  the  porch  began. 
An  old-fashioned  balustrade  ran  along  its  outer 
edge,  with  here  and  there  a broken  baluster  and 
a sagging  hand-rail.  There  were  wide  steps, 
slightly  concave  with  the  tread  of  generations. 
They  descended  to  a grass-grown  road,  and  at 
their  two  sides  there  were  rank  bunches  of  phlox 
and  nasturtiums,  dissolutely  intertwined,  with 
spears  of  timothy  sticking  out  of  the  tangle. 
There,  too,  sprang  the  Virginia  creeper  and  the 
wild-grape  vine  that  climbed  the  pillars  and  fes- 
tooned the  spaces  between,  making,  as  Gabe 
Hotchkiss  said,  cc  a pooty  bad  job  when  we  come 
to  paint  the  house.”  But  we  never  came  to  paint 
it;  you  could  see  that  by  the  fantastic  streaks 
the  broken  leaders  made.  Late  in  the  summer 
the  morning-glories  still  distribute  their  trumpets 
all  through  the  vines,  and  the  wrens  quarrel  there 
as  of  old,  I dare  say.  Sometimes  a humming- 
bird vibrates  above  one  of  the  blooms,  and  so 
impalpable  is  he  that  you  might  take  him  to  be 
the  spirit  of  the  flower  trying  to  disentangle  him- 

129 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

self.  You  cannot  tell  where  the  tissuey  corolla 
ends  and  the  wings  begin. 

You  can  easily  imagine  the  house.  The  big 
doors  open  from  the  porch  into  a spacious  hall- 
way, running  straight  through,  and  making  a cool 
vista,  with  more  phlox  and  wild-grape  vines  in 
the  perspective.  On  Sundays  Gabe  sits  there 
by  the  hall  table  and  reads  the  religious  weekly 
through  his  iron  spectacles. 

This  old  porch  is  a spacious  bowery  and  slum- 
brous vestibulum , always  referred  to  by  the 
occupant  of  the  house  as  cc  the  stoop  ” ; always 
designated  by  the  minister  when  he  makes  his 
visit  as  <c  the  veranda/’  and  always  dignified  by 
summer  boarders,  if  they  come  from  the  city,  by 
the  name  of  £C  pe-azzer  ” or  balcony,  unless  they 
are  Southerners,  and  then  they  call  it  “ the  gal- 
lery.” But  whether  they  draw  their  nomencla- 
ture from  the  Greek,  the  Italian,  the  Spanish,  or 
fetch  it  from  Holland,  they  accept  the  big  run- 
around as  a delightful  compromise  of  outdoors 
and  in  ; and  in  its  hammocky  days,  as  you  may 
imagine  by  the  rusty  old  hooks  on  some  of  the 
pillars,  it  wooed  luxurious  visitors  to  quiet  dreams 
with  elfin  orchestras. 

These  old  porches  are  like  the  prefaces  to  old 
books  in  which  the  author  spreads  a broad  invi- 
tation and  calls  you  “ gentle  reader.”  They 
always  hold  out  homely  arms  of  hospitality, 
though,  to  be  sure,  looked  at  from  a little  dis- 
tance, they  are  more  like  brooding  wings.  They 
mark  in  the  growing  civilization  the  transition 

130 


ON  A PORCH 


of  domestic  life  from  stress  and  peril  to  peace  and 
prosperity.  When  the  big  porch  came  in,  the 
block-house  and  the  stockade  went  out.  De- 
fiance gave  way  to  invitation.  Always  to  the 
far-away  country  home,  the  porch  is  a gracious 
neutral  ground  between  the  exclusiveness  of  the 
home  and  the  impertinence  of  the  world  — why 
not  say,  enchanted  ground,  and  be  done  with  it, 
for  really  that  old  porch  at  the  Hotchkiss  house 
had  its  unsubstantial  enchantment.  A rarefied 
atmosphere  hung  over  it.  The  odour  of  it  comes 
back  to  me  with  vague  associations  as  I write  this. 
It  had  a flavour  of  its  own,  distilled,  one  might 
say,  by  time,  as  we  have  it  in  old  wine.  The 
spruce  shingles  and  flooring  had  absorbed  a dis- 
tinctive bouquet  from  the  years  as  if  the  sun  had 
baked  them  to  a memorial  ripeness.  It  was 
faintly  balsamic  and  evasive,  as  is  the  odour  of 
sweet  clover,  that  you  cannot  trace  like  a fact,  but 
must  accept  like  a presence. 

One  does  not  need  to  be  either  a sensualist  or 
a sentimentalist  to  be  wholesomely  affected  by  the 
inanimate  serenities.  I should  dislike  very  much 
to  be  thought  incapable  of  separating  an  odour  from 
an  orison,  or  an  aesthetic  thrill  from  an  aspiration, 
and  yet  the  atmosphere  of  the  old  porch,  of  which 
I was  scarcely  conscious  at  the  time,  must  have 
been  making  its  deposit  while  I was  thinking  of 
other  things.  Mine  has  not  been  a luxurious  nor 
an  idle  life.  It  is  well  marked  by  the  scars  of 
endeavour,  and  there  are  in  it  such  ordinary 
triumphs  as  come  to  all  ordinary  men.  But  on 

I3I 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

more  than  one  occasion,  when  achievement  had 
been  wrought  through  incalculable  stress,  and  the 
triumph  seemed  very  hollow  by  the  side  of  the 
outlay  — on  such  occasions,  I say,  and  on  others, 
when  it  seemed  that  all  the  malign  forces  of  the 
universe  were  arrayed  against  me,  and  I began  to 
doubt  the  moral  government  of  the  world,  feeling 
that  the  best  a man  can  do  is  to  fold  his  arms  and 
set  his  teeth  with  Greek  defiance,  and  bid  the  gods 
.work  their  worst  — then  there  has  come  a filmy 
recollection  of  Gabe  Hotchkiss  asleep  in  his 
Quaker  rocker,  with  his  weekly  paper  on  the 
floor,  and  the  cool  scented  wind  coming  lazily 
through  that  hall,  lifting  his  gray  locks  softly, 
without  waking  him,  and  I have  wondered,  just 
for  a moment,  if  he  did  not  have  the  best  of  it. 

All  these  things  come  back  to  a man  over  lost 
hours,  bringing  the  scents  with  them.  I must 
have  spent  some  time  on  that  old  porch.  Does 
any  one  suppose  that  its  antique  flavour,  or  even 
its  morning-glories  that  made  cathedral  windows 
of  the  vines  at  sunrise,  were  the  enchantment  ? I 
am  sure  I did  not  give  particular  heed  to  them 
while  the  girl,  Griselle,  was  present.  But  now, 
the  summer  odours,  the  cool  rustling  of  the  leaves, 
the  architecture  of  the  sky  on  the  western  side 
of  the  house  at  sunset,  the  gradient  colours  of  the 
intervening  fields,  and  that  musky  odour  of  the  old 
wood,  and  the  girl  herself,  are  all  parts  of  one 
composition.  The  dry  bones  of  the  Hotchkiss 
genealogy  took  on  some  kind  of  life  when  this 
girl  touched  them  in  our  conversation.  The  old 

132 


ON  A PORCH 


house  had  been  there  half  a century.  It  must 
have  been  in  its  first  period  very  patriarchal,  with 
a lordly  air  of  domain  and  much  riches  on  hoof 
and  in  sheaves.  I take  it  that  this  was  the 
grandfather  period  in  the  Hotchkiss  chronology. 
By  a little  adroit  questioning,  Griselle  filled  in 
some  of  the  gaps  as  best  she  could,  partly  from 
hearsay,  partly  from  the  old  Bible,  and  partly  by 
straight  tradition  through  her  uncle  Gabe. 

Why  should  I be  interested  in  all  this,  which 
is  the  commonplace  history  of  so  many  American 
homes  ? I will  tell  you  why.  First  of  all,  the 
commonplace  is  very  apt  to  be  the  enduring 
elemental  thing  upon  which  the  shocks  and  vi- 
vacities of  life  fasten  themselves  for  your  mere 
divertisement.  In  the  next  place  the  girl  was 
inscrutably  interesting  to  me  as  she  thus  uncon- 
sciously tied  herself  to  all  these  antecedents,  which 
had  woven  her  to  what  she  was.  Can  there  be 
anything  more  delightful  to  the  admiring  intellect 
than  the  genesis  of  a girl  thus  artlessly  set  forth 
without  the  suspicion  on  her  part  that  she  is 
exhibiting  formative  and  converging  lines  of  her 
nature  ? 

There  had  been  a great-grandmother  Hotch- 
kiss, and  the  more  you  stirred  the  dust  of  the  old 
manse,  the  more  distinctly  her  figure  rose  out  of 
the  past’.  There  was  hunted  up  for  me  an  old 
miniature,  no  bigger  than  one  of  those  morning- 
glories,  painted  by  Elliot,  and  in  it  one  saw  the 
same  pensive  blue  eyes,  with  the  same  slightly 
oblique  lines,  the  same  tawny  hair,  but  now  fall- 

J33 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

ing  in  side  ringlets  on  a staid  coiffure,  and  the 
same  lift  of  the  head  on  a quietly  imperative  neck, 
that  were  only  a few  feet  from  me  close  to  the 
wild-grape  vine. 

“Tell  me  all  about  her,”  I said.  “These  old 
mothers  were  the  salt  of  the  earth.  Do  you  know 
that  you  look  like  her  a little  ? ” 

Yes,  she  had  been  told  that  often  enough  when 
she  was  younger  and  the  Hotchkisses  came  thick 
about  the  house  on  Christmas  times.  “ But,  dear 
me,  Em  not  at  all  like  her,  for  she  was  what  Uncle 
Billy  Hotchkiss  called  a grand  dame.” 

“Uncle  Billy  was  probably  right.  What  did 
he  tell  you  about  her  ? Really,  this  interests  me 
deeply.” 

She  tried  to  recall  the  old  man’s  account,  prob- 
ably garrulous  disjecta  membra , and  I,  with  a sur- 
prising patience,  listened  attentively,  and  looked 
on  with  admiration.  It  was  very  much  as  if  a 
pair  of  white  hands  were  taking  to  pieces  one  of 
those  old  bits  of  rag  carpet,  and  a soft  voice  were 
telling  me  that  this  bit  of  colour  was  part  of  a wed- 
ding dress,  and  that  other  was  a scrap  of  baldric 
worn  when  somebody  was  queen  of  the  May,  and 
that  other  — well,  that  was  the  old  blue  coat  that 
had  brass  buttons  on  it,  and  that  was  brushed 
up  for  Henry  Clay’s  funeral,  and  then  hung  in 
the  pantry  long  after  they  buried  the  old  man  that 
wore  it.  But  weave  these  old  strands  as  one 
might,  there  was  always  the  vital  colour  of  the 
grandmother,  and  shift  the  events  into  any  con- 
tinuity that  was  possible,  there  was  always  sure 

*34 


ON  A PORCH 


to  be  the  old  porch  looming  up  and  overlooking 
them.  Great  stalwart  sons  grew  up  and  took 
after  their  full-blooded  father.  They  romped 
with  bare  feet  on  those  old  boards  and  got  their 
lessons  on  rainy  days  round  that  low  window-sill. 
They  took  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  mother  just 
as  they  took  in  the  smell  of  the  hot  roses  that 
came  round  the  southern  corner  of  the  porch. 
There  would  be  one  of  them  upon  whom  the 
mother  had  set  her  heart.  He  was  to  do  as  a 
man  what  she  could  not  do  as  a woman  ; put  into 
great  heroic  deeds  the  self-sacrifice  and  faith  that 
need  muscle  and  will,  and  over  that  particular 
member  of  her  household  she  probably  wept  and 
prayed  when  no  one  saw  her. 

But,  as  the  boys  grew  up,  they  all  straggled 
off.  The  very  freedom  and  brightness  of  the 
farm  life  grew  monotonous.  It  offered  no  chal- 
lenge to  hot  blood ; so  they  had  to  weave  their 
own  mazes  far  away,  and  the  sensitive  one,  upon 
whom  the  hopes  had  rested  like  white  doves,  fell 
into  a youth’s  tangle,  to  escape  which  he  ran  away 
and  enlisted,  being  afterward  heard  of  somewhere 
on  the  Rio  Grande,  where  he  got  a brass  bullet  in 
his  lung.  Griselle  did  not  say  so,  but  I under- 
stood well  enough  that  at  this  crisis  he  began  to 
smell  the  hot  roses,  and  wished  to  be  set  down  on 
that  old  porch.  Nothing  would  do  but  he  must 
speed  that  same  bullet  to  the  heart  of  his  mother. 
They  brought  him  home  from  Vera  Cruz,  and 
there  was  quite  a cavalcade  escorted  the  carriage 
up  from  the  village,  with  a show  of  flags  and  a 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

scream  of  fifes.  It  drew  up  there  at  the  steps. 
What  do  you  suppose  that  mother  cared  for  the 
flags  and  the  fifes,  when  she  saw  that  grizzly  and 
dirty  wreck  lifted  out  with  the  deadly  pallour  on 
his  cheeks  ? It  was  June,  and  the  air  was  heavy 
with  sweet  reproaches.  “ Put  me  down  here,” 
he  said,  “ on  the  porch  for  a while.  I am  going 
to  die.  Let  me  die  out  here.” 

Out  of  Griselle’s  scraps  and  patches  there  looms 
up  another  son  who  was  speculative,  and,  I fear, 
dissolute.  He  must  have  made  a great  deal  of 
money,  in  one  way  or  another,  and  must  have 
squandered  it  in  the  risky  endeavour  to  make 
more.  There  were  times  when  he  was  hard 
pinched  by  his  own  recklessness,  and  then  he 
wrote  to  his  mother,  and  she  helped  him  out 
secretly,  from  the  little  savings  of  her  own,  but 
never  questioning  him.  One  summer  he  came 
up  for  a visit  to  the  farm  and  brought  a young 
wife  with  him.  I see  him  sitting  there  under  the 
vines,  with  the  air  of  an  exhibitor,  and  expecting 
all  the  family  to  admire  his  bride ; treating  them 
with  the  easy  superiority  of  the  young  man  who 
suddenly  knows  it  all.  I can  see  the  mother  try- 
ing to  meet  this  young  woman  with  maternal 
courtesy,  and  being  regarded  in  return  as  very 
prim  and  fussy.  There  must  have  been  many 
little  stories  current  in  the  family  after  the  young 
wife  went  away.  How  she  asked  one  of  the  girls 
if  somebody  could  not  play  the  piano  when  she 
was  going  to  bed  — it  was  so  awfully  still  — and 
couldn’t  they  cut  the  bread  a little  thinner ; and 

136 


ON  A PORCH 


how  she  had  her  husband's  coffee  brought  up  to 
him  in  the  morning  while  he  was  in  bed.  She 
could  not  understand  the  old  porch.  What  did 
people  want  to  sit  out  there  for  — there  was 
nobody  going  by. 

In  one  of  his  after  exploits  this  woman  left  him, 
and  after  that,  it  was  said,  he  took  to  drink,  and 
finally  in  extremity  wrote  to  Griselle’s  father,  and 
the  letter  was  brought  to  the  mother,  as  indeed 
everything  was.  What  must  she  do  but  quietly 
pack  her  trunk  and  go  without  a word  to  New 
York,  hunt  up  her  offspring,  and  when  nothing 
else  would  do,  bring  him  back  to  the  old  porch  ? 

In  brief,  the  old  house  could  not  be  touched 
reminiscently  but  there  came  out  distinctly  the 
outlines  of  the  old  mother  who  had  held  it 
together  and  brought  back  the  renegades  sooner 
or  later  with  a sure  attraction.  She  must  have 
been  the  equitable  sun  that  shone  on  the  just 
and  the  unjust,  and  then  one  day,  after  many 
disappointments  and  hidden  heartbreaks,  she  lay 
down  calmly  and  died,  and  a strange  desolation 
fell  upon  the  place.  The  old  house  must  have 
shown  signs  of  dissolution,  as  if  its  anima  had 
gone  with  her.  The  old  porches,  I dare  say, 
echoed  vacantly  when  she  no  longer  sat  at  the 
low  window.  The  morning-glories  came  as  usual, 
and  the  humming-bird  vibrated  in  the  bloom,  and 
the  sun  poured  into  the  hall  through  the  east 
door ; but  I judge  that  it  all  had  a poignant  irony 
for  the  old  man,  who  must  have  resented  such 
persistent  continuance  of  peace  and  plenty  when 

*37 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

his  world  had  gone  to  pieces.  He  fell  into  an 
apathy  of  discouragement,  and  presently  they 
laid  him  in  the  grave  beside  his  wife. 

I stood  one  day  with  Griselle  at  that  little  plot, 
and  with  great  difficulty  pushed  away  the  wild 
blackberry  vines  to  find  the  almost  obliterated 
grave  of  that  mother.  Eternity  is  very  jealous 
of  the  honours  done  to  its  favourites.  Take  good 
care  of  your  warriors  and  champions,  it  seems  to 
say  — I will  take  care  of  mine  in  silence. 

But,  as  I looked  at  the  handsome  maid,  with 
her  elbow  on  the  old  hand-rail,  and  the  western 
sun  glorifying  her  bronze  hair  as  she  leaned  pen- 
sively on  her  hand,  I could  not  help  saying  to 
myself — how  absurd  it  is  to  speak  of  the  perish- 
ing influences  of  a mother  when  they  live  and 
speak  so  vitally  in  the  third  generation.  I was 
quite  sure  that  the  grandmother  was  looking  at 
me  out  of  those  clear  eyes  with  a waiting  com- 
posure. Some  kind  of  patience  and  nobility,  I 
thought,  biding  their  time. 

H ow  ridiculous  was  the  Doctor’s  theory  that  a 
woman  hugs  and  conceals  her  secrets,  even  from 
herself,  now  that  I was  in  the  presence  of  a 
woman  who  had  no  secrets.  Something  in  the 
old  porch,  perhaps,  that  transmuted  the  Hotch- 
kiss pedigree  into  a fairy  tale.  I have  told  you 
that  it  was  often  impossible  there  to  tell  where 
the  flower  ended  and  the  wings  began. 

If  that  girl  made  me  feel  that  I was  a good 
deal  of  a void  myself,  can  you  blame  me  ? Man 
is  sent  into  this  world  unfinished.  Nature  seems 

138 


ON  A PORCH 


to  say  to  him  at  the  start:  “ You  are  incomplete. 
I have  made  that  other  part  of  you,  but  I do  not 
remember  where  I put  it.  You  will  have  to  hunt 
for  it.” 

I have  met  many  men  who  went  about  for 
years  in  this  Psyche  hunt,  muttering  to  the 
women  they  met,  £C  Where  do  you  suppose  the 
other  half  of  me  was  put  ? ” 

And  just  as  this  fantasy  went  through  my  mind 
the  sun  disappeared,  and  a pleasant  gloom  fell 
round  the  Florentine  maid.  I heard  the  warning 
rap  of  a bird  as  if  on  the  door  of  twilight.  “ It’s 
a woodpecker,”  I said. 

£C  No,”  said  Griselle,  getting  up.  cc  It’s  Uncle 
Gabe  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe.  He  is 
going  to  bed.” 


i39 


CHAPTER  XII 

A SEPTEMBER  CHILL 

I FOUND  that  as  the  season  waned  the  migra- 
tory instinct  in  me  asserted  itself  as  it  does  in 
a bird.  It  was  not  difficult  to  extract  content- 
ment from  July  and  August,  but  with  September 
came  certain  vague  longings  and  stirrings.  The 
Hotchkiss  woods  are  no  more  deserted  in  winter 
than  in  summer,  and  yet,  with  the  first  whiff  of 
cool  air,  carrying  a few  yellow  leaves,  there  came 
a restless  desire  to  take  wing.  This  is  a charac- 
teristic of  the  social  animal.  He  desires  to  go 
with  the  flock,  and  however  seductive  September 
may  be  to  the  eye,  he  is  sure  to  hear  far-away 
voices  calling  to  him  ; even  the  rumble  of  trunks 
and  the  fluttering  of  departing  wings  at  the  water- 
ing places  reach  him.  He  cannot  disguise  from 
himself  that  the  world  is  getting  ready  for  com- 
fortable winter  quarters. 

I did  not  get  the  newspapers  in  the  Hotchkiss 
woods.  It  was  part  of  my  regimen  not  to  get 

140 


I 


A SEPTEMBER  CHILL 

them,  but  how  well  I knew  what  they  were  saying. 
There  would  be  the  lists  of  returning  passengers 
on  the  incoming  steamships  ; the  bulletins  of  the 
theatre  managers  ; I could  almost  hear  the  orches- 
tras tuning  up  on  those  still  nights  ; there  would 
be  house-hunting  and  much  hand-shaking  and  put- 
ting in  of  coal  and  airing  of  salons.  To  be  left 
out  of  these  notes  of  preparation  made  me  ner- 
vous. Besides,  the  joys  of  the  woods  would  them- 
selves be  slipping  away  presently.  The  robins 
already  wore  an  au-revoir  look,  and  even  the  blue- 
birds would  soon  be  seeking  more  comfortable 
quarters  ; the  wire  grass  in  front  of  my  hovel  was 
getting  yellow  in  spots  ; the  maples  had  hung  out 
a few  stray  beacons  of  warning.  Presently  the 
cicada  would  dry  up,  and  then  how  the  still  nights 
would  gape.  Gabe  had  piled  up  a few  cords  of 
hard  wood  on  the  westerly  side  of  the  hovel,  be- 
cause I told  him  I was  going  to  face  it  out,  and 
he  had  ominously  hinted  that  it  would  be  well  to 
bank  up  the  other  side  with  a few  sod.  All  this 
sounded  chilly.  “You  could  keep  a barrel  of 
potaters  in  that  kitchen,”  he  said,  <c  if  you  are 
goin’  to  keep  a fire  there.”  I walked  away  and 
whistled  a few  bars  of  “ La  donna  e mobile,”  that 
being  the  proper  expression  of  my  mood. 

The  more  I looked  at  the  prospect,  the  more 
cheerless  it  became.  I was  getting  desperately 
moody.  It  was  not  possible  for  a man  of  my 
habits  and  associations  to  stick  this  thing  out  all 
winter ! I was  not  a sportsman,  a recluse,  or  a 
cowboy.  My  nature  required  that  I should  hear 

141 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

some  good  music  and  try  on  a dress-coat  once 
more  ; it  even  occurred  to  me  that  in  order  to 
preserve  my  interest  in  sublunary  affairs  I needed 
an  occasional  soft-shell  crab  or  a piece  of  pompano. 
I kicked  the  yellow  dog  that  day,  to  Charlie’s 
amazement,  and  I must  have  spoken  gruffly  to 
Charlie,  for  I found  him  and  the  dog  afterward 
sitting  on  a fallen  tree-trunk,  silently  sympathizing 
with  each  other.  I apologized  to  both  of  them, 
but  it  was  a mere  duty. 

I watched  the  sun  go  down  that  evening,  and 
I never  before  saw  anything  so  consummately 
melancholy.  It  was  luridly  and  mockingly  fan- 
tastic, and  was  barred  by  the  grim  trunks  of  the 
trees,  black  and  monolithic,  that  seemed  to  rise 
from  a graveyard.  A September  sunset  is  proba- 
bly the  loneliest  of  all  earthly  spectacles.  It  is 
like  Chopin’s  music,  hiding  tears  with  colour. 
Tears  for  what  ? God  knows.  If  you  are  alone 
and  in  the  mood,  it  will  paint  fathomless  depths 
of  pathos  that  you  cannot  sound,  and  rim  its 
bulks  of  dun  despair  with  ironical  regrets. 

Charlie  and  I fled  from  the  twilight  into  the 
house  and  shut  the  door,  and  lit  our  kerosene 
lamp.  Then  we  stumbled  round  in  a haphazard 
way  to  get  our  supper.  I made  a strong  pot  of 
coffee,  for  which  I had  a sudden  hankering, 
instead  of  tea,  and  desperately  drank  three  or 
four  cups  of  it,  — black,  — and  when  Charlie  had 
mumbled  his  prayer  and  crawled  into  bed,  I lit 
a cigar  and  paced  up  and  down  in  the  moonlight. 
It  was  a very  ghostly  affair,  I thought.  The 

142 


A SEPTEMBER  CHILL 


same  melancholy  that  the  sun  had  painted  in  oil 
was  now  washed  in  with  water.  I even  felt  chilly, 
although  my  thermometer  said  persistently  that 
I was  mistaken.  I came  in  and  smoked  so  many 
cigars  that  Charlie  began  to  cough  in  his  sleep, 
and  then  I threw  the  door  and  window  open,  and 
the  night  air  struck  me  with  a sharp  shudder. 

Finally  I went  to  bed,  and  then  set  in  an  inter- 
minable tangle  of  dreams,  crowded  with  human 
beings.  I was  with  my  old  companions.  We 
seemed  to  be  going  the  rounds  of  well-remem- 
bered scenes  of  revelry.  Theatres,  concert  saloons, 
men  and  women  in  endless  processions  of  fan- 
tastic sportiveness,  coming  and  going,  with  vast 
audiences,  uneasy,  oppressed,  as  if  by  a mysteri- 
ous presence,  and  looking  at  me  askance  as  if  I 
had  violated  some  inexorable  law  in  coming  back. 
I had  been  away  for  a thousand  years,  and  the 
revelry  all  took  on  the  melancholy  of  the  sunset. 
But  what,  more  than  anything  else,  excited  my 
astonishment  in  this  hurrying  phantasmagoria 
was  the  curious  pulsing  rhythm  of  it.  It  all 
expanded  and  shrank  regularly,  and  everybody 
spoke  and  acted  as  if  keeping  time  to  the  beat  of 
a drum.  Even  the  spectators  vibrated  with  a 
horrible  systole  and  diastole.  It  puzzled  and 
pained  me,  and  when  I asked  for  an  explanation, 
somebody  told  me  that  I was  the  cause  of  it 
all,  and  should  not  be  permitted  to  go  at  large. 
Even  this  explanation  came  in  strange  pulses, 
as  if  one  should  speak  in  throbs.  As  I became 
aware  that  this  rhythmic  impulse  proceeded  from 

H3 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

myself,  I rushed  into  the  street,  only  to  find 
everything  beating  and  moving  in  the  same  meas- 
ure, even  the  vehicles  swelling  and  collapsing  as 
if  with  the  working  of  a great  internal  bellows  ; 
and  the  sound  of  far-away  subterranean  explosions 
seemed  to  set  the  increasing  pace.  Then  sud- 
denly the  sense  of  an  advancing  catastrophe,  of 
which  all  this  rhythm  was  the  mere  footfall ; a 
world-wide  terror,  inexplicable  but  certain,  creep- 
ing like  a fog  over  humanity.  In  the  numb 
ecstasy  of  it  I woke,  and  sitting  up  in  bed,  lis- 
tened to  the  same  drum  beat  and  rhythm  going 
on  within  me. 

This  was  cruelly  discouraging  when  I found 
out  what  it  was.  I got  up  and  lit  my  lamp, 
determined  to  sleep  no  more  on  the  edge  of  a 
precipice.  I sat  there  in  the  gloom  a thoroughly 
disheartened,  if  not  a frightened  man,  saying  to 
myself : “ So  this  is  the  end  of  the  Doctor’s 
Nature  cure.  Here  I am  with  this  infernal  dis- 
turbance breaking  out  again.  What  a jolly  fool 
I have  been  making  of  myself — liable  to  die  in 
that  bed,  and  not  a soul  within  a mile,  and  that 
child  must  get  up  some  morning  and  discover  me 
cold  and  stiff.” 

What  would  I not  have  given  to  hear  an  am- 
bulance bell  just  for  company,  or  to  have  grasped 
a telephone  fraternally  ? But  it  was  no  use.  I 
looked  out  into  the  night  and  listened.  An  owl 
far  down  in  the  woods  was  making  sepulchral 
moans,  and  I thought  if  I had  died  and  gone  to 
Tartarus,  it  would  not  have  been  more  spectral 

144 


A SEPTEMBER  CHILL 


than  those  low-down  stars  looking  through  the 
grim  tree  trunks  and  that  unearthly  chilly  silence. 
“ Nature  herself  plays  the  ghost  at  times,”  I said, 
and  shut  the  door  as  if  to  keep  her  out.  No 
sooner  had  I sat  down  again  to  brood  than  I be- 
came aware  that  the  yellow  dog  was  lying  under 
Charlie’s  bed  eying  me  wistfully.-  I had  kicked 
her  in  the  morning,  and  I could  see  that  she  bore 
no  resentment.  She  was  waiting  anxiously  to  find 
out  if  I would  kick  her  again  or  speak  a kind 
word.  It  was  really  a matter  of  deep  concern  with 
her,  and  it  only  needed  a look  of  passing  friendliness 
in  the  corner  of  my  eye,  and  everything  would  be 
forgotten.  I must  have  shown  some  kind  of  com- 
punction, for  I heard  her  tail  rap  inquiringly. 

“ Come  here,  you  yellow  brute,”  I said.  “There 
isn’t  anybody  else  to  talk  to.  Oh,  wag  your  tail. 
There’s  no  reason  in  the  world  why  you  should 
not  enjoy  yourself  to  the  top  of  your  bent.  You’re 
not  a man.  Yes,  I know,  I acted  more  like  a 
brute  this  morning  than  you  possibly  could,  but 
you  must  make  some  allowance  for  a human  being 
who  hasn’t  anything  to  wag.  There,  that’s  all 
right  — don’t  jump  on  me;  you’re  a good  dog, 
and  there’s  no  need  of  being  so  demonstrative, 
and  everything  is  understood  between  us.  I could 
tell  you  a lot  of  handsome  things  that  man  has 
said  about  dogs.  You  are  the  only  domestic  brute 
that  isn’t  his  slave  and  is  content  to  be  his  wor- 
shipper. Don’t  lick  my  hand  either.  I under- 
stand you  perfectly.  Don’t  try  so  hard  to  express 
yourself.  You  want  to  know  what’s  the  matter 

i45 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


with  me.  Be  quiet  and  I will  tell  you.  I am  sick. 
I came  up  here  to  do  as  you  do  and  sleep  it  off 
in  the  sun  ; but  it  didn’t  work  worth  a cent,  be- 
cause I’m  only  a man,  and  not  a fortunate  dog 
like  you.  Hist,  what  do  you  want  to  bark  for  ? 
Don’t  you  know  Charlie  is  asleep  ? I’ll  bounce 
you  if  you  don’t  stop.  You  can  just  wag  your 
tail  and  talk,  can’t  you,  quietly?  What  time  do 
you  suppose  it  is  ? Wait  till  I look  at  my  watch. 
It  must  be  nearly  morning.  Heavens,  it’s  only 
half-past  three.  What  can  we  do  for  three  hours? 
The  sun  will  not  be  up  till  six.  I’ll  tell  you,  let’s 
light  that  wood  fire.  A wood  fire  is  company. 
Come  on,  there’s  some  light  wood  in  the  kitchen, 
and  I feel  chilly.” 

I might  as  well  put  down  that  dog’s  reply,  if 
for  no  other  reason  than  that  it  is  a true  dog’s 
reply,  and  not  man’s,  which  dog  talk  is  so  apt  to 
be.  This  is  what  he  said,  exactly  : cc  I can’t  make 
out  what  it  is  you  propose  to  do,  but  I under- 
stand in  a general  way  that  you  are  going  to  do 
something,  and  I’m  with  you  whatever  it  is.  Let’s 
make  as  much  hullabaloo  about  it  as  we  can.” 

I have  learned  that  a dog  apprehends  a man’s 
meaning  very  much  as  a man  apprehends  the 
meaning  of  a symphony.  It  is  purely  a matter 
of  tones  and  not  of  articulations.  He  seizes 
upon  your  moods,  not  upon  your  ideas,  with  the 
marvellous  generalizing  capacity  of  a sympathetic 
ear.  He  responds  to  the  allegros  and  andantes, 
appropriates  the  rhythms  without  consciousness, 
and  keeps  time  to  the  feelings  as  they  slip  and 

146 


A SEPTEMBER  CHILL 


merge.  Man  must  be  a continual  Beethoven  to 
a dog,  uttering  mystic  strophes  that  he  cannot 
analyze.  A dog  is  thus  superior  to  a man  in  that 
he  is  always  saved  from  being  a critic. 

From  three  o’clock  in  the  morning  till  sunrise 
is  the  time  when  invalids  die.  It  is  the  lowest 
point  of  the  great  ebb.  The  ooze  of  life  lies  stark 
and  forbidding,  and  nothing  stirs  in  it.  Then  it 
is  that  time  lags,  especially  if  you  are  alone.  I 
thought  of  all  the  lonely  vigils  with  death  hover- 
ing around  the  near-by  bed,  and  that  being  rather 
gruesome,  I tried  to  fill  up  the  dismal  gap  with 
an  air  of  fussiness.  I could  at  least  imitate  some 
of  the  motions  of  life.  I went  out  into  the  kitchen 
to  look  for  kindling,  and  as  I pulled  at  the  wood- 
pile,  the  yellow  dog  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that 
I was  looking  for  rats,  and  I had  to  choke  him 
kindly  to  prevent  Charlie  from  waking  up  and 
contemplating  our  nocturnal  idiocy.  I got  down 
on  my  hands  and  knees  and  blew  at  the  sticks  and 
paper  I had  piled  in  the  fireplace,  and  presently  a 
lazy  spiral  of  smoke  began  to  curl  up  the  chimney. 
Even  that  looked  companionable.  But  no  sooner 
had  the  enlivening  conflagration  set  in  than  an 
unexpected  rumpus  broke  out.  The  old  chimney 
was  alive.  There  was  a beating  of  wings,  much 
peeping  and  scratching,  and  down  came  a brood 
of  swallows,  some  of  them  flirting  the  firebrands 
in  all  directions,  and  others  circling  round  the 
room  with  twittering  alarm,  knocking  down  all  the 
small  articles  and  upsetting  the  lamp,  as  if  chaos 
had  broken  loose  with  a brood  of  night  imps,  in 

147 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

all  of  which  the  yellow  dog,  with  the  exuberance 
of  misdirection,  in  an  animal  that  has  no  regular 
conduits  for  her  emotions,  began  to  make  the  place 
ring  with  barking.  I understood  perfectly  well 
every  phrase  of  her  declamation.  cc  Oh,  say, 
master,  I knew  that  you  were  up  to  something, 
but  I never  dreamed  it  was  as  lively  as  this  ! Yap, 
yap,  yap.  It’s  as  good  as  if  rats  had  wings.” 
And  presently,  as  I got  the  lamp  lit,  and  burned  my 
fingers  trying  to  pull  one  of  the  infernal  imps  out 
of  the  ashes,  and  was  dancing  round  the  room 
blowing  my  hands,  with  the  dog  at  my  heels,  shout- 
ing, {c  Go  it,  this  is  something  like  life,”  I saw 
Charlie  sitting  up  in  bed,  rubbing  his  fists  into  his 
eyes  to  get  the  smoke  out,  and  trying  to  say  with 
all  the  features  he  had,  cc  What’s  broke  loose  ? ” 

When  this  episode  had  quieted  down,  I looked 
at  my  watch.  It  was  only  four  o’clock.  I sat 
down  in  a chair  and  laughed  hysterically  like  a 
woman,  and  there  stood  that  expectant  yellow  dog, 
saying  as  plainly  as  an  oscillating  spinal  system 
could  say  : “ Now,  that  was  fine.  What  next  ? ” 

I had  never  before  in  my  life  waited  for  the 
morning.  Many  persons,  I dare  say,  have  waited 
for  it  every  night  of  their  lives.  But  I did  not 
think  of  that,  nor  of  the  other  fact  that  to  many 
of  them  it  never  came. 

By  and  by  the  flame  of  the  lamp  began  to  grow 
greenishly  dull,  and  a gray,  ghostly  light  stole  in 
by  degrees.  I heard  the  breath  of  dawn  rustling 
the  leaves.  It  was  like  the  footsteps  of  a return- 
ing friend  — why  not  say  an  airy  herald  ? Griselle 

148 


A SEPTEMBER  CHILL 


herself  would  be  coming  across  the  fields  presently, 
bringing  the  sunrise  with  her.  By  Jove,  “ Ed 
walk  over  and  meet  her.”  But  when  I looked 
into  the  little  mirror  I changed  my  mind,  and 
calling  the  dog,  I went  down  to  the  pool  and  had 
an  early  bath.  By  this  and  other  devices  I man- 
aged to  fill  in  the  time  until  I saw  the  muslin  skirt 
and  the  Florentine  hat  glancing  in  the  perspective, 
and,  as  I live,  the  Doctor  was  with  her,  and  was 
carrying  her  milk-pail.  He  had  come  up  the  night 
before  and  stopped  at  the  Hotchkiss  house.  He 
looked  me  all  over  with  a quick  glance,  and  said  : — 

“What  have  you  been  doing?  You  look  as 
melancholy  as  if  you  had  been  editing  a comic 
paper.” 

As  Griselle  slipped  into  the  house,  I told  him. 

“ It’s  anxiety.  I’ve  got  to  move  to-day. 
Going  to  the  city.  Nature  cure  no  good. 
Theory  don’t  work.  Nature  played  out.  Had 
an  attack.  Just  where  I was  when  I started.  If 
I must  shuffle  off,  I propose  to  do  it  where  my 
last  moments  will  be  cheered  with  the  strains 
of  a hand-organ,  and  they  can  put  me  up  in  ice 
for  keeps.” 

He  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  my  words. 
He  was  reading  my  condition  and  let  me  run  on. 

cc  Couldn’t  possibly  stick  it  out  here  all  winter. 
In  fact,  I’ve  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I would 
rather  go  to  the  city  and  die  than  stay  here  and 


ive. 


“ All  right,”  he  said  ; cc  that’s  easy.  Did  you 
make  up  your  mind  since  last  night  ? ” 


149 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

“ Yes  — had  a second  warning.” 

Just  then  Griselle  came  to  the  door  with  the 
coffee-pot  in  her  hand. 

“Why,  whatever  have  you  done  with  the 
coffee  ? The  pot  is  more  than  half  full  of 
grounds.” 

“ Oh,  I made  coffee  for  supper  last  night,”  I 
said  carelessly. 

“ Let  me  look  at  it,”  said  the  Doctor. 

He  took  the  coffee-pot  and  looked  into  it. 
“ Must  have  used  about  a pound,  didn’t  you  ? ” 
“ I suppose  so  — that’s  about  the  usual  amount, 

# > . • . > yy 

isn  t it : 

“ And  drank  the  whole  of  it,  of  course  ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

He  looked  at  me  a moment  rather  benignantly, 
and  then  he  said  : — 

“Well,  let’s  go  in  and  get  our  breakfast,  and 
we’ll  talk  it  over  afterward.  Griselle  has  got 
some  quail  to  broil,  and  Gabe  has  brought  over 
a basket  of  cantaloupes  that  will  make  you  more 
comfortable.  Then  you  can  pack  up  and  go  to 
the  city.  I’m  going  to  stay  a week  or  two.” 

“ What  — you  ? Why,  I want  your  advice.” 
“Then  you’ll  have  to  stay  here  to  get  it.” 


150 


CHAPTER  XIII 


MATURE  TRUANTS 

THE  next  day  he  laughed  me  out  of  my  de- 
termination to  abandon  the  woods  and  go 
to  the  city.  I could  defy  his  advice,  but 
I could  not  withstand  his  laughter.  He  warned 
me  with  considerable  mirthfulness,  which  I 
thought  superfluous,  against  what  he  called  mer- 
curial moods  — city  vestiges.  Men  who  never 
know  when  the  east  wind  blows  and  do  not  care 
a fig  how  much  humidity  is  in  the  atmosphere, 
were  the  best  men  for  practical  purposes.  Alto- 
gether he  had  a good  deal  of  jolly  contempt  for 
what  he  called  “ the  impertinent  valetudinarian 
sensibilities.”  The  man  who  never  knew  that 
he  had  a stomach,  a heart,  or  even  a brain,  was 
the  man  for  him,  for  he  came  the  nearest  to 
Nature’s  ideal.  A man  who  would  drink  three 
cups  of  black  coffee,  smoke  six  cigars,  and  then 
turn  into  bed  would  be  very  apt  to  construct  a 
vast  and  dangerous  theory  of  heart  disease  before 

151 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

morning,  and  ought  to  be  kept  on  milk  and 
apples. 

Then  I got  a very  edifying  lecture  on  heart 
disease,  that  I cannot  remember,  for  it  was 
studded  all  over  with  technical  names  that  stood 
out  like  the  brass  nails  on  a hair  trunk,  but  it 
left  a rather  satisfactory  impression  on  my  mind 
that  the  heart  was  a gay  deceiver  and  played  more 
pranks  with  a man  than  any  other  organ,  if  it 
once  succeeded  in  attracting  attention  to  itself. 
The  only  way  to  treat  it  was  with  respectful  dis- 
dain as  not  belonging  to  one’s  conscious  set. 

The  Doctor  was  one  of  those  physicians  who 
radiate  health  instead  of  prescribing  it.  He  said 
once  that  he  got  his  diploma  from  Nature,  and 
had  been  forty  years  matriculating.  But  he  had 
the  document  of  his  human  Alma  Mater  framed 
and  hung  up  in  his  study,  all  the  same,  and  I 
could  afford  to  take  his  hyperboles  with  good 
humour,  as  when  he  said  that  six  out  of  ten  sick 
men  would  acquire  health  if  they  could  only  be 
restored  to  primitive  ignorance ; they  knew  too 
much  to  be  normal. 

Absurd  as  all  this  was,  it  nevertheless  had  a 
reviving  effect  that  was  inscrutable,  like  a smell 
of  terebinth.  The  Doctor  exuded  balm  of  Gilead 
in  his  talk.  It  was  always  an  exaggerated  and 
lusty  kind  of  assertion  that  struck  you  like  the 
afflatus  of  the  pine  woods  when  the  west  wind 
blows.  It  was  as  if  he  had  more  health  himself 
than  he  knew  what  to  do  with,  and  so  shed  it  in 
his  conversation. 


152 


MATURE  TRUANTS 


“ I’ll  tell  you  what  we’ll  do,”  he  said  to  me 
one  evening.  “ We’ll  take  our  sticks  and  get  out 
of  the  beaten  track.” 

“ Where  shall  we  go  ? ” I asked. 

“Ah,  that’s  it.  We  will  just  go  like  derelicts. 
There  shall  be  no  goal  and  no  purpose  and  no 
provision,  and  then  the  way  will  be  full  of  sur- 
prises. We  shall  never  know  where  we  are  or 
what  the  morrow  will  bring  forth.  We  will 
divest  ourselves  of  all  intent,  and  fill  ourselves 
with  the  delight  of  a road  that  leads  nowhere. 
Did  you  ever  try  that  experiment  ? ” 

cc  I never  did,  at  least,  since  I played  truant.” 
“Happy  word  — truant.  Let  us  be  truants 
for  a few  days ; run  away  from  our  arrogant 
volitions  and  let  the  great  tides  of  unconcern 
swing  us  with  their  ebb  and  flow.  It  will  be 
evangelical.” 

“ Be  what  ? ” 

“ Evangelical.” 

“ It  might  be  jolly,  but  I never  associated  jol- 
lity with  an  evangel.” 

“That’s  because  you  are  thinking  of  it  theo- 
logically, and  I am  speaking  of  it  etymologically; 
simply  good  news,  without  telegraph-wires. 
Something  like  the  dew,  always  encompassing, 
but  only  obvious  when  you  are  cool  enough  to 
condense  it.  I cannot  imagine  anything  so  evan- 
gelical as  to  strip  one’s  self  down  to  a purposeless 
passivity  and  issue  a general  invitation  to  the 
nature  of  things  to  say  what  it  has  to  say  in  its 
own  way.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  the  race 

I53 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

would  have  destroyed  itself  long  ago  if  there  had 
not  been  an  iron  hand  which  crushed  down  its 
impertinence  once  every  twenty-four  hours  and 
said:  ‘Nothingness,  if  you  please,  for  seven 

hours  ; say  your  prayers  and  shut  your  eyes  in 
helplessness,  and  I will  try  and  repair  damages’?” 
I must  have  laughed,  not  disrespectfully,  but 
with  that  kind  of  gleeful  surprise  that  one  experi- 
ences when  he  sees  a Scripture  quotation  in  a yel- 
low journal,  for  he  said:  — 

<c  It  sounds  fanciful  to  you.  Let  me  tell  you 
that  in  my  profession  I have  many  a time  come 
face  to  face  with  the  Benign  Universal  doing  for 
man  what  his  individualism  could  not  do  for 
itself.  Just  as  soon  as  his  self-determination  was 
suspended  entirely,  some  kind  of  protective  arm 
seemed  to  wind  itself  around  him.  You  never 
saw  a somnambulist  walk  on  the  dizzy  edge  of  a 
precipice,  did  you  ? ” 

“ I congratulate  my  nerves  that  I never  did.” 
“Well,  I did.  If  we  had  recalled  her  to  con- 
sciousness, she  would  have  broken  her  neck. 
You  have  probably  seen  a drunken  man  do 
things  that  would  have  killed  a sober  man.” 
“True;  but  I never  felt  that  in  the  nature  of 
things  one  was  safer  when  intoxicated  than  when 
sober.” 

“ It  wasn’t  necessary  to  draw  any  such  con- 
clusion. Because  Nature  takes  pity  on  a drunken 
man,  you  needn’t  imitate  him.  It  is  only  neces- 
sary to  perceive  that  back  of  the  free  and  defiant 
agent  is  another  which  cannot  make  itself  operative 

154 


MATURE  TRUANTS 


unless  the  subject  is  passively  obedient.  There 
is  a profound  mystery  of  benignity  in  the  drugs 
that  kill,  when  handled  by  the  practitioner,  for  in 
his  hands  they  kill  the  volition  without  killing 
the  patient.” 

cc  Doctor,  if  I had  a tail  I would  wag  it.  The 
ideal  man  is  obviously  an  automaton.” 

“ He  ought  to  be,  not  statically,  like  a codfish, 
but  alternately,  like  a prophet,  who  bows  his  head 
at  times  and  is  content  to  be  played  upon. 

“It  has  always  been  the  religious  way  of  acknowl- 
edging the  Not  Me.  It  might  also  be  the  vital 
way.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  all  the  mas- 
ter volitions  of  the  world  that  history  has  made 
us  acquainted  with  utterly  failed  to  accomplish 
what  they  set  out  to  do  ? Take  Charlemagne, 
Bonaparte,  Luther,  Wesley,  as  examples.  They 
had  one  purpose.  Events  had  another,  and  they 
were  swept  along  to  a goal  they  never  saw.  On 
the  other  hand,  those  other  geniuses,  Phidias, 
Shakspere,  St.  Paul,  who  lost  themselves  in  their 
work,  lived  forever  in  it.  Themselves  from  God 
they  could  not  free.  Fancy  Shakspere  giving 
such  an  exposition  of  c The  Tempest’  as  Poe  did 
of c The  Bells,’  or  explaining  how  he  formed  his 
style,  as  our  amiable  friend  Stevenson  has  done. 
When  Shakspere,  or  Dante,  or  Isaiah  executed 
a chef  d' oeuvre^  he  did  not  explain  it  intellectually 
and  call  himself  c big  Injun.’  Those  old  fellows 
rubbed  their  eyes  with  a glad  surprise  and  sang 
psalms  : c I will  show  forth  all  Thy  marvellous 
works.  I will  be  glad  and  rejoice  in  Thee.’  So 

i55 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

does  art,  to  use  the  words  of  an  eloquent  French- 
man,  ‘continue  the  dream  of  God/  ” 

After  this  rhapsody  the  Doctor  got  up  and 
played  with  the  yellow  dog  a moment,  as  if  there 
might  be  some  brute  confirmation  of  what  he  said 
in  tale-wagging  and  spontaneous  irrelevancy.  As 
I said  nothing,  he  came  back  to  me  gustily. 

“You’ll  pardon  me,  old  chap,  for  stuffing  a 
conversation  with  a lecture.  Forget  all  about  it 
and  let’s  play  truant.  I have  an  idea  it  will  put 
you  on  your  spiritual  legs,  so  to  speak.  We  do 
not  need  a formal  introduction  to  the  unpredica- 
ble  and  eternal.  All  we  have  to  do  is  to  snub 
ourselves.  At  all  events  we  can  imitate  the  laxity 
of  sleep  for  a while.  There’s  recuperation  in  it. 
Eve  tried  it.” 

One  morning  we  started  off  early,  roughly  but 
properly  c<  togged,”  without  knowing  where  we 
were  going.  I confess  that  there  was  a boyish 
zest  in  the  uncertainty  and  freedom  of  it.  We 
were  unfamiliar  with  the  country  except  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  of  the  farm,  and  we 
had  looked  at  no  map  and  asked  no  questions. 
Charlie  was  left  in  the  care  of  Griselle,  with  the 
puzzling  understanding  that  we  did  not  know 
when  we  should  be  back.  The  moment  we  were 
out  of  sight  of  the  house,  the  Doctor  asked  me  if 
I felt  any  of  the  true  inwardness  of  being  a tramp. 
I told  him  I thought  I had  some  faint  premoni- 
tions of  it.  “Wait,”  he  said,  “till  we  have  to 
beg  our  dinner,  and  they  ask  us  to  saw  wood.” 
How  exhilarating  that  walk  was  ! There  are 
156 


ALL  THAT  WAS  SEEN  OF  HUMAN  BEINGS  FOR  SEVERAL  MILES  WERE  THE  LABOURERS  STACKING  THE  CORN 
IN  THE  FIELDS,  AND  THEY  GAVE  NO  HEED  TO  US. 


MATURE  TRUANTS 

times  when  the  body  exults  in  motion.  The 
human  machine  springs  to  its  work  with  wings, 
and  all  the  forces  of  the  man  exert  a stimulating 
pressure  to  the  square  inch.  It  is  apt  to  be  on 
such  an  morning  as  was  that  in  September,  with  a 
bright  sun  shining,  white  clouds  sailing  over  a 
deep  blue  sky,  with  a fresh  westerly  breeze,  and 
the  roads  yet  damp  with  the  late  rain  ; something, 
too,  in  the  companionship,  as  if  kindred  spirits 
were  keeping  step,  or,  better  still,  had  taken  hold 
of  hands,  as  children  do  when  they  romp.  The 
air  was  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of  the  wild-grape 
vines,  and  the  fields  were  deliciously  russet — just 
that  melting  gradation  of  sienna  and  tawny 
smears,  running  into  a dull  Naples  yellow,  that 
you  see  on  a finely  baked  custard  — and  fringed 
with  early  goldenrod.  The  old  road  ran  be- 
tween stone  walls,  only  visible  here  and  there 
through  the  flaming  blackberry  vines-  but  backed 
up  with  great  hedgerows,  out  of  which  the  wild- 
cherry  trees  and  the  elderberry,  heavy  with  their 
burdens,  thrust  themselves  into  view  along  with 
the  scrawny  crab-apples.  All  that  was  seen  of 
human  beings  for  several  miles  were  the  labourers 
stacking  the  corn  in  the  fields,  and  they  gave  no 
heed  to  us.  Once  we  passed  a farm  wagon  heavily 
loaded  with  great  yellow  pumpkins,  and  we  left  it 
far  behind  creaking  its  way  lazily.  Now  and  then 
a house  by  the  roadside  seemingly  deserted,  but 
oftener  the  roofs  of  old-fashioned  homesteads 
sticking  out  of  the  vistas  at  a safe  distance  from 
the  highway,  making  themselves  known  as  domes- 

157 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

tic  centres  by  the  cry  of  the  pea-hens  or  the  bark 
of  a dog,  and  generally  having  an  index-finger 
stuck  up  in  the  shape  of  a well-sweep. 

Once  we  came  upon  a printed  warning:  “ No 
trespassing  on  these  grounds,  under  penalty  of 
the  law.  Beware  of  the  dogs.”  That  stopped 
us.  I think  :t  jarred  a little  on  the  general  sense 
of  looseness  and  laziness.  The  Doctor  looked  at 
me  inquiringly,  and  I undertook  to  explain  : — 

££  Modern  improvements,”  I said;  “lawns, 
coverts,  perhaps  a preserve.” 

The  Doctor  climbed  up  on  the  fence  and  ex- 
amined the  sign.  “ It  has  been  painted  about 
ten  years,  I should  judge,”  he  said.  “ Suppose 
we  investigate  it.” 

“ I am  with  you,”  I said.  cc  I can  take  care  of 
one  dog  if  you  will  look  out  for  the  other.”  . 

We  climbed  over  the  fence,  went  through  the 
trees  and  underbrush,  and  came  out  on  a road 
that  had  once  been  gravelled.  It  brought  us  to  a 
house,  mansion-like  in  proportions,  with  the  shut- 
ters tight  and  the  doors  boarded  up.  In  front 
stood  an  old  broken  vase,  with  vestiges  of  a foun- 
tain and  some  broken  pieces  of  plaster  that  may 
have  been  a statue.  We  sat  down  and  surveyed 
the  melancholy  pile. 

“ The  country  is  dotted  with  them  every  ten 
miles  from  Penobscot  to  the  Golden  Gate,”  said 
the  Doctor.  “ I’ll  warrant  that  some  old  sea-cap- 
tain who  gave  his  life  to  battling  with  the  ocean 
comforted  himself  up  to  the  time  of  his  dotage 
with  retirement  on  a farm.  Doubtless  he  was  a 

158 


MATURE  TRUANTS 


whaling  master  and  thought  Nantucket  was  con- 
ventional. He  came  here  and  tried  to  shiver 
timbers  and  pipe  all  the  affections  on  deck,  after 
the  affections  had  died  of  the  scurvy.  Then  the 
loneliness  of  it  killed  him,  and  none  of  his  heirs 
have  had  the  decency  to  take  that  sign  down.” 
Then  he  chuckled,  as  he  always  did,  to  take 
the  edge  off  an  absurdity. 

“ Perhaps,”  I ventured  to  remark, cc  if  we  could 
get  at  the  heart  of  these  old  farmers  who  never 
die,  we  should  find  that  they  had  a similar  inten- 
tion, to  end  their  days  on  a whaler.” 

“ No,”  said  the  Doctor,  ccit  will  not  work  both 
ways.  What  you  have  called  the  homing  instinct 
is  universal,  but  the  migratory  instinct  is  not. 
The  trouble  with  the  homing  instinct  is,  with 
most  men,  that  it  is  unaccompanied  by  a homing 
capacity.  It  is  so  with  all  of  us.  As  we  grow 
old,  the  desire  to  return  is  irresistible,  but  the 
capacity  to  return  is  gone.  I say,  old  fellow,  if 
you  want  to  do  the  prodigal-son  business,  don’t 
wait  until  you  are  old.  What  do  you  suppose 
was  the  age  of  that  young  man  in  the  Bible 
story  ? ” 

“Judging  from  his  recklessness,  I should  say 
he  was  about  sixty-two.” 

The  Doctor  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  foun- 
tain. “By  the  way,”  he  said,  “I  wonder  how 
that  old  germ  story  would  have  survived  if  it  had 
been  told  realistically  and  not  dramatically.” 

“ Dramatically  ? ” 

“ Certainly.  Notice  how  it  falls,  away  back 

I59 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


there,  into  five  acts.  You  can  put  the  descrip- 
tive titles  to  each  act  just  as  the  dramatists  do. 
There  is  the  first  act,  the  Happy  Family;  second 
act,  the  Estrangement  and  Temptation;  third  act, 
the  Suffering  and  Remorse ; fourth  act,  the 
Return  ; fifth  act,  the  Merrymaking.  There  is 
a shadow  flits  over  it  in  the  brother’s  envy,  and 
then  all  ends  happily.  Out  of  this  fecund  little 
vesicle  of  a tale,  how  many  thousands  of  the 
world’s  legends  have  been  wrought  without  ever 
improving  on  the  subtle  simplicity  of  the  original, 
or  broadening  the  ethical  and  romantic  ground 
plan  of  a return.  The  whole  fabric  of  the  peo- 
ple’s legendary  fiction,  from  the  wandering  of 
Ulysses  to  the  waking  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  seems 
to  have  been  woven  upon  the  postulate  of  a re- 
turn, and  when  the  imaginations  of  men  tried  to 
fashion  the  most  dreadful  of  possibilities,  they 
invented  the  Wandering  Jew,  for  whom  there  was 
no  return.  I wonder  how  Zola  or  Bourget  would 
have  written  the  story  of  the  prodigal.  What 
penetration  into  the  customs  and  manners  and 
hereditary  fatalism  of  the  riotous  livers ; what 
accurate  and  thrilling  photographs  of  the  swine; 
how  pathetic  the  futile  attempts  of  the  Prodigal  to 
escape  from  the  seductive  determinism  of  husks, 
and  how  admirably  he  would  have  failed  to  arrive 
at  the  proper  moment,  when  the  father  was  wait- 
ing for  him,  because  he  had  blown  his  brains  out 
or  cut  his  throat  with  a potsherd  on  the  way. 
Allons , brother,  I prefer  the  highway.” 

We  descended  slowly  into  a valley,  which  grew 
160 


MATURE  TRUANTS 


shadowy  and  wet,  and  there  was  the  traditional 
rustic  bridge  across  a narrow  stream.  The  Doc- 
tor looked  at  his  watch.  “ How  far,”  he  asked, 
“ do  you  suppose  we  have  come  ? ” 

I thought  five  miles.  He  calculated  eight.  It 
was  noon.  We  leaned  against  the  old  hand-rail 
and  looked  at  each  other. 

“ Doctor,”  said  I, cc  I acknowledge  the  prodigal 
feeling  — it  is  located  mainly  in  my  stomach.” 

He  pointed  down  the  stream  to  a flat  rock, 
very  mossy  and  canopied  by  a marsh  poplar. 
cc  Let  us  repair,”  he  said,  cc  to  yon  umbrageous 
spot.  I have  bread  and  butter  with  home-cured 
ham  interpolated,  not  to  mention  two  hard-boiled 
eggs,  prepared  by  the  dainty  fingers  of  the  girl 
we  have  left  behind.  I will  promise  you  not  to 
lecture.” 


161 


CHAPTER  XIV 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  DIRT 

SEPTEMBER  sets  her  quiet  banquets  occa- 
sionally, and,  like  Hamlet,  we  eat  the  air, 
promise-crammed.  There  are  breakfasts  of 
sunrise  and  long  hours  of  aerial  lunch,  when  the 
atmosphere  is  golden  with  invisible  fruit,  and  all 
one  can  do  is  to  feed  the  senses.  Then  it  is  thas. 
the  old,  worn  earth  is  very  beautiful,  as  she  sits 
with  her  hands  crossed  in  her  bounteous  lap. 
With  her  labour  all  finished,  one  might  say  that 
she  crooned  softly  on  a royal  death-bed.  It  is  at 
this  rare  interval  of  fruition  and  expectancy  that 
the  poor  devils  lock  their  studio  doors  and  steal 
away  to  the  woods  and  mountains  to  lay  in  inspi- 
ration after  society  has  fled.  September  to  them 
is  a rustic  sweetheart,  who  welcomes  them  with 
fruity  breath  and  large  calm  eyes  of  blue.  Then 
it  is  that  they  renew  their  youth,  looking  for  the 
sleeping  princess,  and  become  princes  themselves 
in  fairy  solitudes. 

162 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  DIRT 


No  one  but  the  artist  knows  how  eloquently 
still  and  prophetic  September  is.  It  is  her  rest 
that  floods  him  with  inscrutable  delight,  and 
coaxes  out  of  him  the  longings  and  the  hopes 
that  enter  into  and  unite  with  the  great  inarticu- 
late psalm.  I say  “ hopes  ” deliberately  ; and 
yet  faith  would  be  a better  word,  for  the  aesthetic 
nature  gets  mildly  and  religiously  intoxicated:  — 

“ His  faith  is  fast 
That  all  the  loveliness  he’d  sing 
Is  made  to  bear  the  mortal  blast 
And  blossom  in  a better  spring.” 


It  is  only  the  artist  who  can  see  the  possible 
sunrise  in  the  actual  sunset. 

In  the  Doctor’s  office  in  the  city  there  is  hung 
upon  his  wall  one  Scripture  motto.  I have  often 
looked  at  it  wonderingly,  asking  myself  what  it 
meant,  and  how  it  came  to  be  there.  This  is 
what  it  says  : — 

“ For  thus  saith  the  Lord  God,  the  Holy  One 
of  Israel.  In  returning  and  in  rest  shall  ye  be 
saved.  In  quietness  and  confidence  shall  be  your 
strength,  and  ye  would  not.” 

One  day  I was  waiting  there  with  an  artist 
friend,  who  was  badly  run  down,  and  needed 
advice.  We  expected  the  Doctor  to  come  in  at 
any  moment.  My  friend  stood  looking  at  the 
text,  musingly. 

“ Well,”  I asked,  “ what  do  you  make  of  it  ? ” 

He  looked  at  me  dreamily,  and  said  : — 

163 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


cc  I don’t  know  why,  but  it  put  me  in  mind 
of  a day  in  September.  I suppose  those  old 
prophets  lived  in  a kind  of  autumn  of  the  soul. 
Did  you  never  have  a thought  rustle  like  the 
dead  leaves  ? ” 

The  Doctor  and  I sat  down  on  a sloping  rock, 
eating  bread  and  butter.  Jack  Horner  was  a 
pessimist  compared  with  us.  To  be  able  to  eat 
bread  and  butter  at  all  was  one  of  the  victories  of 
the  natural  over  the  artificial  man,  but  to  eat  it 
voraciously  and  want  more  seemed  to  strike  the 
Doctor  as  a moral  victory.  There  was  only  one 
higher  plane,  he  thought,  for  me,  and  it  was  to  be 
able  to  eat  mush  and  milk  with  joy  and  thank- 
fulness. 

The  beautiful  mountain  stream  ran  swirlingly 
but  softly  in  front  of  us,  weaving  and  melting  into 
confluent  and  vanishing  curves,  and  making  an 
intoxicating  chromotype  of  colour,  as  it  swept  in 
under  the  overhanging  shadows  and  out  again 
into  the  radiant  sunlight,  murmuring  very  softly 
as  if  subdued  to  the  season.  Here  and  there  a 
cardinal-flower,  that  leaned  over  to  look  at  itself 
out  of  its  own  green  and  tangled  cloister,  shot 
a spark  of  colour  downward,  and  against  a gnarled 
bank  the  water  spun  silver  tissues  over  the  old 
gold  of  the  sand.  Somewhere  out  of  sight,  we 
could  hear  the  muffled  drum-beat  of  a little  cas- 
cade pounding  against  the  wet  rock.  That  was  all. 
It  was  like  an  oboe  uncertainly  played.  We 
both  listened.  “ Does  the  stillness  oppress  you 
with  its  melancholy?”  asked  the  Doctor. 

164 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  MOUNTAIN  STREAM  SWIRLINGLY, 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  DIRT 


I was  not  at  all  sure.  There  was  something 
pensive  in  it,  I thought.  It  was  as  if  Nature 
were  holding  her  breath.  “ I never  could  under- 
stand,” I said,  “ why  the  banquet  of  the  year 
should  be  tinged  with  solemnity.” 

“ I can  only  offer  a suggestion,”  remarked  the 
Doctor.  “ All  the  other  months  of  the  season 
are  obtrusive  and  jocund  with  incessant  prepara- 
tion. July  and  August  burst  into  insistence  with 
the  pressure  of  life.  Everything,  from  the  tiniest 
spark  of  animation  to  the  highest  form  of  animal 
beauty  and  instinct,  made  those  summer  months 
a workshop.  They  hammered,  and  wove,  and 
spun,  and  built,  and  multiplied,  and  rounded  it 
all  up  completely  in  perfect  obedience,  singing, 
and  chirping,  and  warbling,  and  flashing  to  get 
it  all  done.  They  have  finished  the  work  and 
gone  away.  It  is  impossible  for  a man  to  come 
face  to  face  with  this  glad  consummation  and  rest 
without  feeling  some  kind  of  self-reproach. 
There  is  something  that  he  has  not  finished. 
A mocking  voice  tells  him  he  never  will.  That 
is  what  Pascal  meant  when  he  said  that  the 
superiority  of  a man  to  a tree  is  that  the  tree 
does  not  know  that  it  is  miserable,  and  Emerson 
somewhere  says  that  man  would  not  love  Nature 
so  childishly  if  he  were  good.” 

Then  the  Doctor  pulled  up  suddenly,  as  he 
always  did  when  he  found  himself  getting  preachy, 
and  said : <c  There  is  a sawmill  a mile  or  two  up 
this  stream.  There  may  be  hospitality  and  bread 
and  milk  there.” 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

cc  How  do  you  know?”  I asked;  cc  you  never 
were  here  before.” 

“True,”  he  replied,  “ but  there  is  sawdust  in 
the  water,  and  the  bank  is  wet  a foot  or  two 
higher  than  the  stream,  as  if  somebody  opened 
his  flume  occasionally.” 

The  road,  after  passing  over  the  little  river  on 
the  bridge,  turned  at  a sharp  bend  and  ran  paral- 
lel with  the  banks  for  some  distance,  under  the 
grateful  shade  of  chestnuts  and  elms,  the  open- 
ings in  which  afforded  us  continual  glimpses  of 
the  water,  here  broken  into  foamy  hurries  and 
there  spread  out  in  dark  pools.  Not  a bird  sang 
in  the  branches.  The  only  vestiges  of  summer 
life  that  we  encountered  for  a mile  or  two  were 
some  crows  caucusing  in  a dead  tree  that  looked, 
against  the  blue  sky,  like  a bunch  of  antlers,  and 
now  and  then  we  met  with  the  little  white  butter- 
flies that  flutter  in  couples  and  look  like  wayward 
petunias  blown  about  by  imperceptible  winds. 
We  were  winding  through  the  heart  of  real  rus- 
ticity. Here  and  there  we  saw  the  bent  labourers 
at  work  digging  potatoes.  Looked  at  from  the 
distance,  they  presented  all  the  aspects  of  ignoble 
drudgery,  grubbing  for  what  at  best  must  be  a 
scanty  living.  As  the  sun  approached  the  hori- 
zon, and  we  began  to  wonder  where  we  should 
put  up  for  the  night,  I suggested  that  we  had 
better  interview  some  of  these  field  hands  as  to 
our  whereabouts,  and  at  last  we  crawled  over  a 
stone  fence  and  made  our  way  through  stubble 
and  furrows,  and  past  long  rows  of  bagged  po- 

166 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  DIRT 


tatoes,  to  a distant  group,  consisting  of  two  men 
and  a woman,  who  were  digging  away  mechani- 
cally. 

“ Good  day,  friends,”  said  the  Doctor,  breezily; 
“ we  are  strangers  and  have  lost  our  way.” 

One  of  the  men  leaned  on  his  hoe  and  looked 
us  over.  The  others  went  on  with  their  work. 

“ Where  do  you  want  to  go  ? ” the  man  asked. 
“ Anywhere,  my  friend,  so  that  we  can  get  a 
supper  and  a night’s  lodging.  We  are  on  a bit 
of  a jaunt  for  our  health  and  have  lost  our  bear- 
ings.” The  Doctor  pulled  out  a very  handsome 
watch  and  looked  at  it.  “ It’s  a quarter  of  five,” 
he  said.  “ Perhaps  you  can  direct  us  so  that  we 
can  reach  the  nearest  stopping-place  before  night.” 
I could  not  very  well  suppress  a feeling  of  pity 
as  the  man  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  face  with  a 
cotton  handkerchief  and  regarded  us  with  a dull 
astonishment.  He  must  have  been  sixty  years 
old.  His  hard  sinewy  hands  were  like  tangled 
roots,  his  face  was  tanned  to  a mahogany  colour, 
so  that  the  white  hairs  on  it  looked  grizzly.  He 
wore  an  old  torn  felt  hat,  and  he  took  it  off  and 
fanned  himself  as  he  said  : — 

“ Wanderin’  around  loose,  hey  ? Which  way 
was  you  pointin’  ? ” 

The  Doctor  looked  at  me,  and  we  both  laughed. 
It  would  not  do  to  tell  this  pragmatic  rustic  that 
we  had  abandoned  all  definite  intentions. 

“ We  were  examining  the  country,”  said  the 
Doctor,  with  magnificent  indefiniteness.  cc  Isn’t 
there  a mill  somewheres  about  ? ” 

167 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


cc  Only  a sawmill.  Runnin’  fire-wood  now. 
Jedge  Dutcher’s  farm’s  about  three  miles  west — * 
there’s  nothin’  between  him  an’  me  ’cept  the  saw- 
mill. Milligan’s  Corner’s  two  miles  beyond.” 

“ Do  you  feel  able  to  do  five  miles  more  ? ” 
asked  the  undiminished  Doctor. 

At  this  the  young  woman  spoke  up.  “Why 
don’t  you  ask  the  gentlemen  to  stop  with  us, 
Dad  — that’s  what  they’re  fishin’  for.  We  can 
spare  ’em  some  grub.” 

“ The  team’ll  be  along  in  a minute  or  two,” 
said  the  old  man.  “ If  you’ve  a mind  to  go  back 
with  us,  we  can  feed  yer.” 

Then  the  three  of  them  fell  to  digging  again 
without  any  further  reference  to  us.  The  Doctor 
picked  up  one  of  the  potatoes.  It  was  as  big  as 
his  two  fists.  While  we  were  making  compli- 
mentary remarks  that  did  not  call  for  any  inter- 
ruption of  the  work,  a farm  wagon,  drawn  by 
two  lusty  horses  and  driven  by  a boy,  came  up. 
This  was  the  signal  to  stop,  and  immediately  the 
labourers  seemed  to  recover  their  humanity.  The 
girl  shook  the  soil  off  her  heavy  skirt,  threw  her 
hoe  into  the  wagon,  and  entered  at  once  into 
conversation  with  us,  while  the  men  lifted  a few 
of  the  filled  bags  into  the  wagon.  She  was  a slim, 
but  nervy  damsel,  with  a very  red  face,  and  a pair 
of  bright  eyes.  She  stepped  over  the  furrows 
with  a vigorous  and  easy  grace  that  surprised 
me. 

“ It’s  pretty  hard  work  on  a woman,”  she  said; 
“but  our  hired  man  had  his  two  fingers  cut  off  in 

1 68 


WE  DREW  UP  AT  A LONG,  LOW  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  TREES,  VERY  ANCESTRAL,  I THOUGHT,  FOR  PEASANTS. 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  DIRT 

the  mill,  and,  being  short-handed,  I had  to  turn  in 
with  the  rest.  IPs  the  biggest  crop  we  ever  had, 
and  the  old  man  wanted  to  get  it  in.” 

“It’s  a magnificent  crop  of  potatoes,”  said  the 
Doctor,  with  the  easy  air  of  an  expert.  “ What’s 
it  worth  ? ” 

“Well,  if  the  old  man  don’t  realize  five  hun- 
dred on  it,  he’ll  be  sick  at  Christmas.  It  won’t 
run  as  good  as  that  more’n  once  in  five  years. 
Now,  if  you’ll  pile  into  that  wagon,  we’ll  take 
you  with  us.” 

We  drew  up  at  a long,  low  house  hidden  away 
in  locust  trees,  very  ancestral,  I thought,  for  peas- 
ants. A shaft  of  ruddy  light  shot  into  the  road 
from  the  summer  kitchen,  where  a motherly  dame 
in  a white  apron  stood  in  the  doorway  with  her 
hand  over  her  eyes,  trying  to  make  out  what  had 
arrived  in  the  wagon,  a curiosity  that  suddenly 
broke  out  in  a shrill  call,  “ Mercy  on  me,  Lize, 
who  you  got  there  ? ” 

“All  right,  mommy,”  said  Lize.  “I’ll  be 
there  in  a minute.  Now,  then,  I suppose  you 
want  to  wrench  the  dirt  off.  I’ll  show  you  the 
basin.” 

How  deliciously  cool  and  vitalizing  that  well 
water  was.  I put  my  head  down  into  it,  and  it 
had  a fine  magnetism  in  it.  It  was  not  long 
before  Lize  came  out  on  the  porch  where  we  were 
waiting  for  her.  She  was  attired  in  a clean  mus- 
lin dress  with  a baby  waist.  She  had  evidently 
“wrenched”  herself  expeditiously  and  thoroughly, 
and  she  came  out,  as  the  Doctor  said,  like  a silk- 

169 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


worm.  Presently  we  went  in  to  supper  with  the 
warning  from  Lize  that  we  would  have  to  take 
what  we  could  get.  There  was  something  inex- 
pressibly bright  and  inviting  about  the  homeli- 
ness of  that  supper  table,  with  its  kerosene  lamp 
and  blue  shade,  its  mug  of  marigolds,  its  spotless 
white  cloth,  and  a certain  simple  bounty  in  the 
great  dish  of  steaming  biscuit  and  superb  roll  of 
sweet  butter,  to  say  nothing  of  the  cold  meat  and 
potatoes  and  the  homely  earthen  teapot.  The 
old  man  held  up  his  gnarled  hands  and  mumbled 
some  hardly  articulate  words  of  thanks,  and  we 
fell  to  as  readily  and  easily  as  if  we  were  in 
a Bedouin  tent  and  a kid  had  been  killed 
for  us. 

I thought  I detected  in  the  curiosity  of  our 
hosts  a latent  pity  for  persons  who  came  from  the 
city,  which  was  to  them  a place  where  men  took 
their  lives  in  their  hands  and  were  always  in 
danger  of  jumping  off  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  from 
excess  of  excitement  or  to  escape  from  the  noise. 
The  old  lady  thought  it  must  be  awfully  tedious 
to  be  always  on  the  hop,  skip,  and  jump  for  fear 
of  being  crushed  by  an  electric  car.  She  said  she 
always  felt  when  she  was  in  a crowd  as  if  she  had 
the  pleurisy  coming  on  again,  and  there  wasn’t  a 
scrap  of  boneset  in  the  county.  Broadway  to  her 
was  like  a bull-yard  with  a fence  down,  and  the 
old  lady  said  this  with  a calm  superiority  as  if  she 
were  looking  down  on  us  through  her  spectacles 
from  some  primitive  Elysium. 

I really  felt  as  if  the  Doctor’s  Scripture  motto 
170 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  DIRT 


had  been  woven  out  of  drudgery  into  the  fine 
autumnal  lines  of  her  benign  old  face. 

I have  to  confess  that  in  coming  upon  this  bit  of 
picturesque  slavishness  I regarded  it  at  first  as  an 
artist  might,  thinking  it  good  enough  to  paint,  but 
not  good  enough  to  emulate.  It  was  impossible 
for  my  artificial  daintiness  to  avoid  feeling  for  it  a 
slight  pity  of  superiority,  which  was  of  course  only 
an  evidence  that  I knew  nothing  whatever  about 
it.  I had  grown  into  that  sort  of  hypersensitive- 
ness which  calls  soil  “dirt,”  and  regards  physical 
labour  in  the  furrow  as  something  which  every  self- 
respecting  American  has  outgrown  by  three  gen- 
erations. I’m  afraid  that  if  my  conclusions  at  the 
time  had  been  brought  to  light,  they  would  have 
been  found  to  be,  that  superior  intellects  never 
delved,  only  aspired  ; that  American  enterprise  did 
not  bother  about  making  dirt  fat  with  an  hundred 
fold,  but  washed  and  dressed  itself  and  stood  round 
to  intercept  with  gloved  hands  some  of  the  money 
that  passed  from  the  consumer  to  the  producer. 
I dare  say  that,  at  first  contact  with  this  group,  I 
was  Mohammedan  enough  in  my  sensibilities  to 
believe  that  a girl  in  a tow  frock  could  by  no  pos- 
sibility become  a Peri.  All  this  is  contemptibly 
un-American  by  the  record,  and  I am  frankly 
ashamed  of  it  now.  But  it  needed  just  such  a 
clod-hopping  Peri  to  wipe  the  scales  from  my  eyes 
with  the  end  of  her  tow  frock. 

That  she  “ wrenched  ” herself  in  a pail  of  spring 
water,  or  had  a scented  bath  in  some  upper  grotto 
of  her  own,  I do  not  know,  but  she  shed  her  clod- 

171 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

hopper  integuments  like  a columbine,  for  they 
were,  after  all,  only  an  improvisation,  and  she  came 
out  in  a baby  waist  of  muslin  with  short  sleeves, 
and  fluttered  a little  guidon  of  ribbon  in  her  rich 
molasses-coloured  hair,  that  made  her  look,  upon 
my  word,  like  one  of  those  late  morning-glories 
on  Gabe’s  porch. 

I could  not  help  thinking  as  I watched  her  pre- 
side at  that  tea-table  — that  was  what  she  called  it 
— with  an  innate  and  facile  self-possession,  and 
saw  with  what  unconscious  chivalry  the  two  men 
treated  her,  how  easily  she  would  effect  the  trans- 
formation to  a fine  lady  when  some  well-to-do 
fellow  pulled  her  up  by  the  roots  from  her  furrow 
and  planted  her  in  his  conservatory.  I had  seen 
this  marvellous  plasticity  of  the  uncut  American 
diamond  in  Paris  and  in  London.  How  quick 
she  would  cease  to  say  “ wrench  ” and  “ Pop  ” and 
take  to  saying,  “ Bless  my  soul,  governor/’  Not 
a suspicion  of  the  furrow  in  two  years,  not  even 
the  freckles.  If  you  destroy  that  possibility,  you 
nip  the  American  progress  in  the  bud. 

Of  course  she  was  not  of  as  fine  a mettle  as 
Griselle ; I hope  I have  made  it  tolerably  clear 
before  this,  that  few  girls  could  be.  But  there  was 
about  her  a certain  honest,  easy,  transparent  dig- 
nity, with  contentment  that  refreshed.  She  was 
not  ashamed  of  potatoes.  That  fact  wrung  from 
me  a silent  tribute  before  I knew  it.  She  showed 
us  her  cottage  piano  and  the  inevitable  sewing- 
machine  in  the  little  parlour,  not  as  one  shows 
furniture,  but  as  one  shows  an  acquirement,  for 

172 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  DIRT 

she  said  as  she  pointed  to  one,  cc  potatoes,”  and 
as  she  pointed  to  the  other,  “lima  beans.”  There 
was  a surveyor’s  level  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
and  seeing  us  regard  it  with  surprise,  she  said : 
“ Oh,  that’s  Ike’s  — he’s  getting  the  levels  of  the 
south  fields,  so  as  to  run  the  water  from  the  cold 
spring  into  the  house.”  Ike  had  been  to  the 
seminary  at  some  time  in  his  life. 

There  was  an  hour  or  two  of  conversation  on 
the  grass-plot  after  supper,  where  the  old  man 
smoked  his  clay  pipe  regularly.  He  would  no 
more  dare  to  smoke  it  in  that  homely  dining  room 
than  he  would  dare  to  go  to  bed  with  his  boots  on. 
Then  we  were  shown  to  a chamber,  the  peasant 
girl  holding  the  kerosene  lamp  for  us  like  that 
colossal  girl  in  our  harbour,  and  saying : “ Pleasant 
dreams,  gents.  I’ll  rap  on  your  door  at  six  o’clock 
if  you’re  not  up  ; ” and  we  both  heard  her  starched 
skirts  rustle  down  the  stairs.  We  went  immedi- 
ately to  bed  between  sheets  that  smelled  of  sweet 
balsam,  and  if  the  Doctor  snored  I did  not  notice 
it.  I was  awakened  by  the  rumble  of  the  wagon, 
and  saw  in  the  early  mists  the  two  men  going  to 
the  potato-field,  one  of  them  whistling  cheerily, 
his  notes  coming  back  to  me  like  a skylark’s,  long 
after  he  was  out  of  sight. 

At  the  breakfast  table  we  had  an  opportunity 
of  conversing  more  leisurely  with  the  Peri  of  the 
Soil.  She  poured  our  coffee  — very  good  coffee 
it  was,  with  fresh  cream  in  it  — and  she  served  us 
with  fresh  eggs  and  home-cured  bacon  and  hot 
corn-meal  muffins,  and,  placing  a receptacle  of 

*73 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


sowing  material  beside  the  coffee-pot,  she  pulled 
up  a chair  and  employed  her  time  in  fitting  a new 
neck-band  on  a hickory  shirt,  while  we  ate. 

“ I should  suppose,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ that 
even  so  charming  a home  as  this  would  sometimes 
be  a little  lonesome  to  you.” 

“ Lonesome  ” evidently  had  a different  mean- 
ing for  her.  She  repeated  the  word  inquiringly, 
as  if  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  before.  “ I guess 
people  don’t  get  lonesome  if  they  have  enough  to 
do,”  she  said,  and  the  Doctor  smiled  significantly 
at  me,  as  if  he  wanted  to  insert  an  aside  to  the 
effect  that  digging  potatoes  does  not  ruin  horse 
sense.  Then  she  added,  “ I suppose  anybody 
could  find  lonesomeness  if  he  had  time  to  wander 
around  looking  for  it.  I should  think  you  would 
have  found  it  on  the  road.” 

“ Yes,  but  we  had  had  too  much  of  the  other 
thing  and  were  trying  to  get  away  from  it.  I sup- 
pose it’s  very  different  with  you.” 

“ Yes,”  she  said,  “ I guess  it  is.  What  were 
you  looking  for  on  the  road  ? ” 

At  that  the  Doctor  guffawed  outright.  “ What 
was  it  we  were  looking  for  ? ” he  asked  me,  as  if 
he  needed  prompting,  and  the  girl,  seeing  there 
was  some  hesitancy,  tried  to  help  us  out.  “ You 
wasn’t  lookin’  for  work,  was  you  ? ” 

“No,”  replied  the  Doctor,  “not  exactly.  We 
were  both  of  us  a little  overworked,  and  we  were 
looking  for  rest  and  a change.  Everybody  needs 
them  at  times.  I dare  say  now,  even  you  would 
like  a change  sometimes.” 

U4 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  DIRT 


She  let  the  hickory  shirt  drop  in  her  lap  and 
looked  into  vacancy  a moment,  as  if  she  had  seen 
a phantom  temptation  pass  by. 

“ There’s  a good  many  stragglers  stop  here  in 
the  course  of  the  year,”  she  said,  £C  but  they  are 
never  women.” 

The  Doctor  instantly  corroborated  this  idea. 
££  I understand,”  he  said.  “Women  can  be  al- 
most everything  that  men  can  be,  except  tramps. 
But  we  are  not  tramps.” 

££  No,  you  don’t  talk  like  tramps.  I have  been 
tryin’  to  make  out  what  you  are.” 

£C  Neighbours,”  I ventured.  “We  are  staying 
at  the  Hotchkiss  farm  for  a while.” 

££  Oh,  is  that  so- — Gabe  Hotchkiss’s.  It  ain’t 
so  lonesome  there,  I guess.” 

££  It’s  about  the  same  kind  of  a farm  as  this. 
They  raise  the  same  kind  of  stuff.” 

££  We  never  could  raise  city  boarders,”  she  said 
rather  shyly.  ££  I heard  Gabe  would  be  sellin’  the 
place.  I suppose  his  niece  will  be  gettin’  married. 
She’s  had  plenty  of  chances.” 

As  this  verged  upon  gossip,  and  we  were  not 
disposed  to  discuss  our  friends,  the  breakfast 
came  to  an  end ; and  shortly  afterward,  when 
we  were  about  to  set  out,  the  girl  slipped  a 
package  of  luncheon  into  the  Doctor’s  pocket, 
and  when  we  were  some  distance  down  the 
road,  feeling  sure  that  we  would  look  back, 
she  waved  an  adieu  to  us  with  the  hickory 
shirt. 

££  What  do  you  suppose  she  meant  by  saying 

r75 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

Griselle  would  be  getting  married  ? ” I asked 
the  Doctor. 

“A  general  instinct  of  her  sex,”  he  replied 
vaguely.  “ A girl  like  Griselle  is  not  apt  to  die 
an  old  maid.” 

“ What  kind  of  a man  do  you  suppose  she  will 
be  apt  to  marry  ? ” 

“ I can  tell  you  better,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ the 
kind  of  a man  she  will  not  marry.  It  will  be  the 
kind  you  have  fixed  in  your  mind  that  she  ought 
to  marry.” 

We  were  walking  along  the  grassy  path  by  the 
side  of  the  road  rather  briskly,  and  at  this  speech 
I stopped  short ; and  the  Doctor  doing  the  same 
thing,  we  both  stood  there  a moment,  looking 
each  other  in  the  face. 

“ Did  you  mean  that  for  a warning,  or  is  it  one 
of  your  glittering  generalities  ? ” 

“ I meant  it  for  a conclusion,  based  upon  ob- 
served facts.  You  have  of  course  allowed  your- 
self to  fall  in  love  with  Griselle.” 

“ Why  do  you  say,  c of  course  ’ ? ” 

<c  Because  I am  better  aware  than  you  are  of 
the  general  tendency  of  mankind.” 

“ Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  general  ten- 
dency is  to  fall  in  love  with  Griselle  ? ” 

“ I mean  to  say  that  the  general  tendency,  when 
there  is  only  one  girl  in  sight,  is  to  think  that  she 
is  the  only  one  in  existence.” 

“ Oh,  rubbish ; you  are  putting  up  your  feel- 
ings as  scientific  data.” 

“ And  you  are  verifying  my  suspicions  by  talk- 
176 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  DIRT 


ing  as  if  you  were  actually  jealous.  Let’s  change 
the  subject  before  we  quarrel.  This  is  a regener- 
ating morning.  Look  at  those  flaming  maples. 
Did  you  ever  see  such  dyes  ? Great  Scott ! what  a 
depth  of  feeling  there  is  in  yellow,  if  it  be  only 
spattered  with  a little  scarlet.  Do  you  know,  I 
think  yellow  is  the  major  note,  after  all.  It  repre- 
sents in  the  visual  world  what  sodium  does  in  the 
universe.  Everything  tries  to  imitate  gold  when 
it  can.  There’s  no  passion  in  it.  The  magnifi- 
cent calm  of  the  Chinese  has  some  affiliation  with 
chrome  yellow.  The  Mongolian  probably  wears 
the  original  livery  of  Eden.” 

We  walked  on.  “Doctor,”  I said,  “suppos- 
ing such  a thing  possible,  do  you  see  anything 
very  preposterous  in  a large,  cool,  mature  admira- 
tion for  a girl  like  Griselle?  ” 

“ Large,  cool,  mature  admirations  are  not  pos- 
sible outside  of  the  domain  of  external  nature. 
Observe  that  delicious  field  of  burnt  umber  just 
turned  up ; I suppose  it  is  ready  for  fall  plant- 
ing— rye  perhaps.  How  silver  gray  every  stone 
in  it  looks  in  this  light,  and  how  vivid  the  stems 
of  those  white  birches  by  the  brook,  against  it 
all.  Do  you  know,  my  boy,  there  is  something 
restful  and  recuperative  in  good  virgin  dirt  ? I’ve 
got  half  a dozen  hysterical  patients  who  could 
draw  some  kind  of  earthy  virtue  from  the  brown 
field  if  I could  only  take  their  tight  shoes  off  and 
make  them  run  barefoot  in  those  furrows.  Did 
it  ever  occur  to  you  that  civilization,  in  abolishing 
dirt,  is  very  apt  to  substitute  filth  ? A ploughed 

177 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

field  is  not  half  as  nasty  as  the  average  vaude- 
ville. ” 

“I  was  thinking,”  I said,  “ that  a woman  like 
Griselle  might  really  express  in  her  perfection 
what  inanimate  Nature  is  continually  trying  to  say, 
and  cannot.” 

“ There  are  two  Griselles,  my  boy.  One  is  in 
Gabe’s  farmhouse,  and  the  other  is  in  your  im- 
agination. There  goes  an  early  flock  of  wild 
ducks.  Listen  — you  can  hear  the  beat  of  the 
wings.  I suppose,  now,  John  Burroughs  could 
tell  us  if  they  are  canvasbacks  or  mallards  by  the 
formation  of  the  flying  wedge;  but  I can’t.” 

“ You  see,”  I continued,  “ a man  don’t  know 
much  about  a woman  until  he  gets  to  be  forty.” 
The  Doctor  broke  in  on  my  speech  with  : — 
“Wait  till  you  are  sixty,  my  boy.  A man 
really  doesn’t  know  much  about  women  at  forty. 
You  will  allow  that  the  judgment  is  more  secure, 
less  liable  to  be  disturbed  by  mere  amorousness, 
and  better  able  to  estimate  the  intrinsic  qualities 
and  the  sterling  worth  of  character  when  he  is 
sixty.  One  is  not  so  apt  to  be  moved  by  a 
pretty  face.  He  sees  the  essentials  more  clearly. 
Keep  your  eye  on  that  distant  line  of  hills  a 
moment.  Notice  how  they  deepen  in  colour,  if 
you  watch  them,  when  one  of  those  white  clouds 
obscures  the  light.  But  they  never  change  their 
forms.  The  atmosphere  in  September  is  very 
moody  and  expresses  itself  in  clouds,  much  more 
fantastically  than  in  April.  I suppose  it  is  be- 
cause the  landscape  has  more  colour  in  it.  Sep- 

178 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  DIRT 


tember  reminds  me  of  a man  who  has  reached 
forty  years  of  age.  Listen  to  the  cider-presses, 
down  in  that  meadow.  It’s  the  Yankee’s  vintage 
time.” 

“ I have  remarked  that  girl  carefully,”  I said. 
“ She  has  a magic  that  defies  environment  and 
conditions.  She  doesn’t  escape  drudgery.  She 
invites  and  transforms  it.  Her  contented  nature 
is  a continual  harvest  home.  I wonder  if  it  is 
true  that  Gabe  intends  to  sell  out  and  marry  her 
off.” 

“ Doubtless,”  said  the  Doctor.  “She  is  proba- 
bly engaged  to  the  village  blacksmith.  Do  you 
smell  the  wild  grapes  ? They  hang  high  on  those 
old  buttonball  trees.” 

“ I mentioned  to  you  once  before  that  she  is 
devotedly  attached  to  Charlie.” 

“ He  probably  doesn’t  invest  her  with  any 
magical  virtues.  I don’t  think  you  enjoy  such  a 
morning  as  this  as  keenly  as  I do.  This  air  re- 
minds me  of  one  of  those  English  glees  that 
require  men’s  voices.  There  is  always  a lusty 
eagerness  in  them.  Take  that  glorious  old  song 
of  c Hail,  Smiling  Morn’  — Spoffort’s,  I think. 
How  exultant  and  Saxon  ! The  voices  all  seem 
to  be  horns.  We  can’t  write  those  songs  any 
more.  We  seem  to  have  left  September  out  of 
the  repertory.  Curious,  isn’t  it,  that  the  farther 
West  music  gets,  the  less  muscle  it  has.” 

“ But  you  must  certainly  see  that  Charlie  would 
be  greatly  benefited  if  he  had  a tenderer  hand  than 
mine  to  shape  and  guide  him  while  he  is  ductile.” 

179 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

cc  Did  you  ever  drink  any  apple  juice  warm  out 
of  a press  ? Let’s  go  down  that  old  cow-path  in 
the  meadow  and  get  a tin  dipper  full  of  it.” 

“ A man  who  has  a child,”  I remarked,  cc  must 
take  into  consideration  his  responsibility.  It’s  a 
weight  he  cannot  shirk.” 

“ But  we  agreed  to  leave  all  our  responsibilities 
behind  us,”  broke  in  the  Doctor.  “ Come  on,  down 
the  cowpath.  We  are  free  from  all  the  temporary 
attachments  of  the  Hotchkiss  menage.  Nothing 
will  follow  us,  if  we  keep  in  the  cow-path  — there’s 
a rabbit  or  something  in  that  bush  — look.  No, 
it  isn’t  a rabbit  — well.  I’ll  be  blessed.” 

And  at  that  moment  the  yellow  dog  put  her 
head  through  the  bushes,  and  we  could  see  by  the 
disturbance  of  the  leaves  that  she  was  wagging  her 
tail  inquiringly,  Paul  Pry  fashion,  and  trying  to 
say,  “ I hope  I don’t  intrude.” 

I replied  to  the  Doctor  with  a subtle  look  of 
triumph,  but  I refrained  from  gloating  over  him. 


180 


CHAPTER  XV 

A FRINGED  GENTIAN 

THE  burning  leaves  and  stubble  filled  the 
air  with  a smoky  haze,  which  to  the  artistic 
eye  is  like  going  over  a poem  and  taking 
the  superfluous  adjectives  out  of  it.  The  autum- 
nal foliage  has  misty  recessions,  as  if  one  saw  the 
perspectives  through  a delicate  gauze,  as  we  some- 
times see  them  in  the  theatre.  It  is  during  the 
bright  days  when  September  has  merged  into 
October  that  our  landscapes  wear  for  a while  the 
softened  gradations  that  a wet  climate  affords, 
and  which  the  English  artists,  who  visit  us  in 
August,  always  miss.  They  shade  their  eyes  from 
the  chromatic  garishness  of  Midsummer,  as  if  the 
loveliness  were  too  pronounced.  But  now  the 
emphasis  gives  way  to  suggestiveness.  Every- 
thing is  mellowed  by  the  intervening  medium. 
October  does  for  our  picture  what  time  has  done 
for  most  of  the  European  pictures.  The  sumach 
and  the  Virginia  creeper,  those  proletariats  of  the 

181 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

American  autumn,  that  flaunt  themselves  in  red 
shirts  and  mob  caps,  are  seen  through  smoked 
glass.  Even  the  sharply  outlined  white  clouds 
of  September  that  were  so  like  majolica  work  in 
their  insistent  contrast,  have  now  ripened  and 
melted  away  at  the  edges,  and  have  assumed  an 
entirely  new  fitness  to  the  general  drowse. 

If  you  have  ever  stood  upon  the  Galata  bridge 
at  Constantinople  in  the  morning,  and  looked 
across  the  Golden  Horn  upon  Stamboul,  you 
must  have  been  conscious  that  in  those  old  coun- 
tries the  atmosphere  forever  prevents  colour  from 
becoming  impertinent.  Man  has  nowhere  lifted 
so  much  architectural  blazonry  into  the  air  as 
there.  The  historic  city  is  a pile  of  softened 
dyes  — gold,  and  crimson,  and  scarlet,  melting 
into  impalpable  greens  and  swept  above  and 
below  by  a flashing  cobalt  blue.  But  it  is  like 
a picture  of  Titian’s  with  its  imperishable  gamut 
of  pigments  played  in  a low  key  by  time  itself. 
It  is  only  in  October  that  external  Nature  with 
us  puts  on  those  vanishing  distances.  It  is  then 
only  that  our  Alleghanies  and  the  great  bulks  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  which  are  so  like  the  rug- 
ged peremptoriness  of  a Western  statesman  or  a 
muscular  tragedian,  catch  up  with  the  Tyrol  in 
spectral  beauty.  The  sky  drops  down  with  a 
mantle  of  gauze  and  wraps  the  peaks  in  opales- 
cent garments,  so  that  the  stalwart  limbs  of  the 
great  range  imitate  the  voluptuousness  of  a half- 
draped  beauty.  There  is  always  a week  in  Octo- 
ber when  Nature  holds  a bit  of  yellow  glass  to 

182 


A FRINGED  GENTIAN 


our  eyes,  and,  like  children,  we  catch  a glimpse 
of  the  golden  age.  I dare  say  that  the  paradi- 
saical fancies  of  all  peoples  have  been  caught 
through  the  cathedral  windows  of  the  woods  in 
this  voluptuous  month. 

I never  knew  until  the  Doctor  and  I set  out 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  October  what  a sweet 
mystery  it  enfolded.  Once  under  the  spell  I 
could  not  quite  rid  myself  of  the  notion  that 
Nature  has  her  dim  religious  lights,  and  sits  at 
times,  like  Jeremy  Taylor's  widow,  in  a clean 
apron  with  her  hands  crossed  and  her  work  done. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  that  she  had  laid 
her  soft  muffling  finger  upon  all  the  cognitions. 
Every  sense  was  hushed  and  recipient.  Every 
sound  that  summer  makes  sharp  and  sibilant 
sunk  to  a drowsy  pianissimo.  Every  breeze 
murmured.  Even  the  crows  had  interposed  mel- 
lowing spaces.  I heard  them  in  a new  perspec- 
tive. It  was  so  with  the  visual  world.  I saw 
that  it  was  drawing  a soft  drapery  around  it,  and 
animate  things  were  hushed  as  if  they  had  come 
into  the  chancel  of  the  year. 

So,  too,  October  has  her  special  symbols  and 
inscrutable  souvenirs,  one  of  which  the  Doctor 
hunted  up  and  brought  me  with  as  much  honest 
delight  as  if  he  had  found  a new  reading  of  Shak- 
spere,  or  an  old  Biblical  text  had  risen  up  and 
fitted  itself  to  a new  want. 

Later  we  seated  ourselves  at  the  foot  of  a gentle 
slope,  having  reached  a narrow  and  brambly  mar- 
gin of  a broad  meadow.  Over  on  the  other  side 

183 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

we  could  see  the  gnarled  and  fantastic  apple  trees, 
where  an  old  orchard  sprawled  out  into  the  level 
land.  We  heard  the  softened  voices  of  men  and 
women,  who  were  gathering  apples  and  making 
cider,  and  the  intermittent  creak  of  the  cider-mill 
was  not  unlike  a late  cricket. 

That  such  a vista  should  lay  hold  of  the  sensi- 
bilities of  two  unlike  men  of  the  world,  not  at  all 
given  to  the  “ album  business,”  as  the  Doctor 
called  it,  was,  I thought,  notable,  and  as  I sat 
down  to  drink  it  all  in,  I remarked  that  it  was  like 
one  of  those  old  strains  of  Bellini’s  that  have  a 
cloying  sweetness.  But  the  Doctor  thought  not. 
It  was  an  harmonic  complex,  making  interminable 
music  without  bars.  It  reminded  him  of  the  swan 
music  in  Lohengrin.  Whether  it  was  the  season 
or  the  mood  we  brought  to  it,  I do  not  know,  but 
we  sat  silent  a moment  to  let  it  play  its  own  tune 
upon  us.  Out  in  the  middle  of  the  meadow  a 
winding  stream  had  spread  itself  into  a little  la- 
goon, and  round  about  were  pools  which  looked 
like  blue  eyes,  and  over  them  the  huckleberry 
bushes  leaned,  barring  and  etching  the  water  with 
a delicate  tracery.  On  either  side  the  grasses 
spread  out  in  orange,  bronze,  and  tawny  bands 
that  melted  into  each  other  and  made  of  the 
meadow  a spectrum  of  the  season. 

These  visual  rhythms  go  very  deep  into  a man’s 
subconsciousness,  and  the  Doctor  warned  me  not 
to  disturb  them  with  any  aestheticism.  cc  They 
cannot  be  unravelled,”  he  said,  “ and  they  resent 
explication.  In  that  sense  they  are  a higher  kind 

184 


A FRINGED  GENTIAN 


of  music  that  fits  itself  to  man’s  needs  only  in  his 
unquestioning  acceptance.” 

But  I was  thinking  of  Griselle,  and  what  I 
wanted  to  know  was  why  a meadow  should  call 
up  that  maid,  and  October  invite  her  into  every 
tender  picture  that  it  painted  on  its  way.  So  I 
asked  the  Doctor  if  the  beguilement  of  Nature 
did  not  leave  something  to  be  desired.  I quoted 
Coleridge  at  him  from  memory, — 


“It  is  her  largeness  and  her  overflow. 

Which,  being  incomplete,  disquieteth  me  so.” 


“ I wonder  how  Coleridge  knew  it  was  incom- 
plete,” said  the  Doctor.  “ What  would  you  sug- 
gest as  its  consummation  ? ” 

“Something  human,”  I replied.  “Art  and 
poetry  have  always  tried  to  supply  it.  A beauti- 
ful landscape  is  like  written  music  which  needs  a 
voice  or  an  instrument.  Nature  would  be  very 
lonesome  in  her  loveliest  aspects  to  a man  left 
alone  on  this  earth.  It  is  impossible  even  for  a 
materialist  to  look  at  this  scene  without  peopling 
it.  If  the  poets  had  not  personified  and  human- 
ized Nature,  it  would  be  like  Shakspere’s  ‘Tem- 
pest’ with  Miranda  and  Prospero  left  out.” 

“And  yet,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ Nature  goes  her 
own  way  and  is  never  modified  or  changed  by 
man’s  imaginings,  which  in  the  main  are  efflor- 
vescences  of  his  magnificent  and  selfish  will.  When 
a man  is  in  love,  he  sees  things  only  through  his 
desires.  Artists  and  poets  are  always  in  love. 

185 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

They  think  in  hyperbole,  like  Romeo.  They  are 
superbly  anthropomorphic.  Stars  throb,  trees 
breathe,  waves  dance,  leaves  utter  prayers,  birds 
woo.  They  make  the  planets  think  of  the  same 
girl  that  has  usurped  their  minds ; the  ocean  is 
crammed  with  Aphrodites  — matter  is  hymeneal. 
Do  you  suppose  such  a fellow  is  thinking  of 
Nature?  Confound  it,  he  is  thinking  of  himself, 
and  cunning  Nature,  who  is  thinking  of  her  race, 
cajoles  and  fools  him  to  the  top  of  his  bent,  and 
when  she  has  accomplished  her  own  purpose,  she 
drops  him  like  a hot  potato.  The  surest  way  to 
get  rid  of  the  Grecian  mythology  is  to  get  married. 
Then  old  Triton  hands  his  ‘wreathed  horn’  over 
to  the  youngest  member  of  the  family.  Our  re- 
cent poets  string  Nature  upon  their  desires.  I 
was  reading  the  other  day  our  friend  Cawein,  and 
he  has  the  audacity  to  say : — 

* < * There  is  no  rhyme  that  is  half  so  sweet 

As  the  song  of  the  wind  in  the  rippling  wheat. 

There  is  no  metre  that’s  half  so  fine 
As  the  lilt  of  the  brook  under  rock  and  vine, 

And  the  loveliest  lyric  I ever  heard 
Was  the  wild- wood  strain  of  a forest  bird.’ 

I don’t  know  that  young  man, — his  poetry  pro- 
claims him  to  be  young,  — but  if  ever  he  settles 
down,  he  will  probably  rewrite  that  verse  some- 
thing like  this  : — 

(t  ‘ There  is  no  song  that  is  half  so  sweet 
As  the  clash  of  matter  one  is  apt  to  meet. 

1 86 


A FRINGED  GENTIAN 


There  is  nothing  so  fine  to  Jack  and  Jill 
As  a natural  fluid  that  runs  down  hill. 

And  the  loveliest  lyric  man  ever  heard 
Was  not  lyric  at  all,  but  what  he  inferred.  * ” 

“It  seems  to  me/’  I ventured  to  say,  “that 
you  are  trying  to  play  the  part  of  Peter  Bell,  and 
it  does  not  become  you,” 

“You  utterly  mistake  me.  I am  only  insisting 
that  the  sane  man  shall  accept  the  facts  of  Nature 
while  he  exercises  his  imagination  in  using  her 
for  his  own  purposes.  She  is  stuffed  full  of  facts 
as  well  as  symbols,  but  they  do  not  always  corrob- 
orate his  desires.  Wait  a moment  — I am  going 
down  in  that  meadow  to  look  for  an  autumnal 
fact.” 

Then  off  he  started,  and  I saw  him  poking 
about  among  the  grasses,  sometimes  almost  lost 
to  view,  evidently  looking  for  something  with 
great  earnestness. 

Left  alone  I wondered  if  Griselle  would  enjoy 
this  scene.  It  really  seemed  to  me  that  her  pres- 
ence would  in  some  way  banish  the  incomplete- 
ness. I was  curious  to  know  how  she  would  regard 
it.  Would  she,  like  so  many  women  I had  met, 
pretend  to  enjoy  it  because  I did  ? I could  not 
rid  myself  of  the  notion  that  she  would  fit  into 
it  and  interpret  it  unconsciously. 

I heard  the  Doctor  shouting  to  me  as  he  held 
up  something  that  looked  like  a bunch  of  grass. 
When  he  came  back,  he  handed  me  three  or  four 
stems  about  eighteen  inches  long  of  the  fringed 
gentian,  each  stem  having  upon  its  curved  branches 

1 8 7 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


four  or  five  flowers.  I looked  at  the  beautiful 
specimens  with  the  passing  admiration  that  such 
wildings  always  excite,  and  then  I turned  to  him 
expectantly  to  know  why  he  had  taken  so  much 
trouble  to  get  them. 

“ The  last  beautiful  words  of  the  season,”  he 
said,  “ the  daintiest  and  most  eloquent  that  she 
ever  speaks.” 

“ It  is  certainly  a very  pretty  flower,”  I re- 
marked. 

That  appeared  to  vex  him  a little.  “ I don’t 
think  you  know  it,”  he  said.  “ As  a rule,  city 
people  do  not.  The  poet  Bryant  wrote  some 
pretty  verses  on  it.  I suppose  you  know  that  ? ” 

I had  to  confess  that  I did  not.  But  I have 
since  read  them  several  times. 

“ Look  here,”  said  the  Doctor.  “ This  is  the 
flower  of  America.  They  can’t  make  it  grow  in 
China,  and  there  are  only  some  dull  hints  of  it  in 
Europe.  Nowhere  but  in  our  land  does  it  reach 
its  feminine  loveliness,  and  then  it  makes  the 
fleur-de-lis  meagre  and  the  columbine  and  the 
violet  washed  out.” 

He  held  the  bunch  at  arm’s  length  in  front  of 
him.  “ Did  you  ever  see  branches  with  such  a 
queenly  and  pensive  curve  ? It  is  the  grace  of  a 
tall  beauty  making  her  first  bow  to  the  world. 
The  corolla  is  a perfect  Etruscan  vase  — look 
at  it,  lifting  four  shell-shaped  petals  beauti- 
fully fringed  and  of  an  evasive  azure  that  defies 
description.” 

“ Charming,”  I said.  “Very  like  a rustic  belle.” 
1 88 


LOOKED  AT  THE  BEAUTIFUL  SPECIMENS. 


A FRINGED  GENTIAN 


cc  Nothing  so  beautiful  in  all  our  fields.  Were 
it  to  grow  in  Thibet,  they  would  canonize  it. 
Persia  would  ascribe  supernatural  virtue  to  it. 
Greece  would  have  immortalized  it ; but  not 
having  it,  she  had  to  take  up  with  the  less  regal 
flower,  Narcissus.  I dare  say,  if  we  could  get 
into  the  community  of  flowers,  we  should  find 
that  this  is  the  queen,  though  it  is  a shame  to 
call  her  a queen  when  she  refuses  to  grow  in  any 
but  a republican  country.  Isn’t  that  spray  exactly 
the  curve  of  fresh  beauty  making  vassals  of  us 
all  by  mere  contour  ? Zenobia  never  held  her 
head  more  proudly,  and  Cleopatra  could  not  wrap 
herself  so  luxuriously  after  her  bath  as  this  poor 
princess  of  the  wild-wood.” 

This  strain  quite  caught  me.  “ I am  glad  to 
hear  you  attribute  such  human  qualities  to  a 
flower,”  I said.  “ I was  inclined  to  do  that 
myself,  just  now,  and,  to  be  idiomatic,  you  sat 
upon  me.” 

“ Do  you  observe,”  said  the  Doctor,  cc  that  she 
is  wrapping  her  tissuey  shawls  about  her  and 
hiding  her  face  ? Look  at  the  spiral  fringe  ; did 
you  ever  see  such  an  airy  twist  as  that  ? The 
Sultan’s  women  try  to  do  it  with  their  laces.  If 
one  of  our  serpentine  dancers  could  do  that,  she 
would  take  Paris  by  storm.” 

It  was  true  — the  flowers  had  closed  up  spirally, 
and  the  line  of  fringe  on  each  one  of  the  four 
leaves  of  the  corolla  were  wound  about  as  when  a 
belle  wraps  herself  after  the  ball. 

“ You  are  right,”  I said. 

189 


“ I never  saw  a 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

flower  before  with  such  a feminine  grace.  I am 
glad  that  it  attracted  you,  and  that  you  captured 
it.  You  are  only  human,  like  myself.” 

“ Perhaps  Em  inhuman,”  he  replied.  “Doctors 
are  apt  to  have  that  reputation,  for  the  flower  has 
resented  my  impertinence.  That  is  a fact  to  which 
I wanted  to  call  your  attention.  This  beautiful 
and  almost  human  wild  flower  is  placed  wholly 
beyond  the  desires  or  the  plans  of  man.  It  hides 
away  from  him.  It  will  not  grow  in  his  garden. 
A thousand  attempts  have  been  made  to  domes- 
ticate it,  in  vain.  It  disdains  the  parterre,  and 
refuses  to  bloom  in  the  hothouse.  It  is  the  true 
child  of  Nature,  and  if  you  pluck  it  as  I have 
done,  it  draws  itself  together,  hides  its  virgin 
beauty  like  a true  vestal,  and  dies  draped.” 

Then  the  Doctor,  who,  when  he  fires  his  gun, 
always  wants  to  get  out  of  range,  added:  “Well, 
let’s  be  going.  We  don’t  want  to  sit  here  all  day, 
do  we  ? ” 

It  must  have  been  two  weeks  later.  We  had 
returned  from  our  tramp,  and  after  a great  deal 
of  skirmishing,  I succeeded  in  getting  Griselle  to 
let  me  drive  her  over  and  show  her  that  scene. 
She  took  a heavy  wrap,  for  the  wind  was  sharp. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  I had  dared  to  make  a 
companion  of  her,  and  as  I had  taken  good  care 
to  leave  Charlie  behind,  we  were  seated  side  by 
side  for  a couple  of  hours.  Some  kind  of  unrea- 
sonable desire  to  have  the  reality  on  that  very 
spot  where  so  much  ideality  had  been  wasted 
possessed  me.  There  was  no  accounting  for  these 

190 


A FRINGED  GENTIAN 


masculine  whimsies.  All  that  is  worth  telling  at 
this  time  is,  that  when  I reached  the  spot  where 
the  Doctor  and  I had  sat  down,  October  had 
changed  her  tune  and  her  dress.  It  was  late  in 
the  afternoon,  and  the  sky  was  filled  up  with  what 
Keats  calls  “ herded  elephants  slow  moving  in  the 
west,”  and  low  down,  where  the  sun  struck 
through,  they  were  caparisoned  in  gold  brocade 
and  carried  flaming  plunder.  It  was  dismal 
enough.  The  color  was  all  out  of  the  meadow, 
save  where  the  pools  seemed  to  wink  their  blood- 
shot eyes  at  us,  as  the  stiff  wind  swayed  the 
huckleberry  bushes.  Griselle  wound  her  wrap 
about  her  and  seemed  to  retire  within  it.  Only 
her  face  was  visible,  and  that  wore  an  inquiring 
and  somewhat  vacuous  look. 

It  gave  me  a numb  feeling  of  despair.  And 
yet  as  she  stood  there,  wound  about  as  if  by  the 
wind,  I could  not  help  saying  to  myself,  “ The 
fringed  gentian.” 


191 


CHAPTER  XVI 

STRAMONIUM 

IN  our  purposeless  wandering  over  roads  that 
led  nowhere,  the  Doctor  and  I came  at  last  to 
some  discomfort  — that  is  to  say,  it  would 
have  been  discomfort  but  for  the  Doctor.  We 
had  trudged  along  the  whole  afternoon,  stopping 
to  get  a drink  of  buttermilk  at  a small  dairy  over 
a brook,  and  there  the  Doctor,  fascinated  by  the 
rolls  of  fresh  butter,  had  bought  half  a pound,  and 
the  buxom  dairymaid  had  rolled  it  up  in  two  or 
three  cool  cabbage  leaves.  As  we  came  along  the 
road,  and  I saw  him  carrying  that  bundle  carefully 
in  his  hand,  I asked  him  what  he  expected  to  do 
with  it ; whereupon  he  asked  me  to  hold  it  a moment 
and  went  off  into  a near-by  field,  where  I saw  him 
bent  over,  kicking  and  scratching  as  if  in  search 
of  something.  When  he  came  back  he  had  three 
or  four  good-sized  potatoes,  which  he  exhibited 
with  unbounded  admiration,  and  insisted  on  wash- 
ing them  off  at  the  first  rivulet  we  encountered. 

192 


STRAMONIUM 

It  grew  gray  and  chilly  toward  sunset.  The 
wind  was  blowing  from  the  east,  and  presently  it 
began  to  rain  — that  kind  of  fine  slanting  rain  that 
Gabe  called  “ carpet  tacks,”  and  that  is  specially 
cheerless  and  makes  you  think  it  much  colder 
than  it  really  is.  Where  we  were,  neither  of  us 
knew.  All  the  perspectives  that  had  fed  us  with 
pictures  were  rapidly  obliterated  by  a leaden  mist, 
and  as  the  prospect  closed  heavily  in  about  us,  we 
instinctively  came  closer  together.  I think  the 
Doctor's  effort  to  enjoy  it  was  a little  obvious  and 
somewhat  marred  by  his  absurd  determination  to 
keep  the  half  pound  of  butter  some  distance  from 
his  person. 

“ It  will  hardly  add  to  our  store  of  pleasant 
memories  to  plod  all  night  in  this,”  I ventured  to 
remark,  as  I slapped  the  drip  off  my  soft  hat. 
“ There  is  a lively  prospect  of  our  being  soaked 
to  the  bone.” 

“If  we  do  not  run  upon  a house,”  he  said,  “ we 
shall  have  to  crawl  into  some  cave  or  covert.  You 
have  read  of  such  experiences,  I suppose,  when 
you  were  a boy.” 

“Very  delightful  to  read  about,”  I suggested. 

“ I dare  say  we  can  find  a shelter  of  some  kind. 
The  animals  do.  That’s  the  fun  of  it.  To  have 
brought  a waterproof  house  and  modern  conveni- 
ences along  would  have  been  aesthetic  poltroonery.” 

“ It  looks  to  me  as  if  it  had  set  in  for  a week.” 

“Very  likely.  It  usually  does  about  this  time 
of  year.  Haven’t  you  ever  noticed  the  propriety 
and  regularity  of  the  seasons  ? They  go  on  with 

I93 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


their  work  utterly  regardless  of  the  audience. 
That’s  what  I admire  about  them.  Your  eyes  are 
better  than  mine  — what  do  you  make  that  thing 
to  be  that  is  sticking  up  over  in  that  field  ? ” 

“ I should  say  it  was  an  old  hayrick  or  sheep- 
fold.” 

<c  Then  we  are  saved,”  said  the  Doctor,  <c  if  it 
is  thatched.  Forward.” 

He  caught  me  by  the  arm  as  we  trudged  up  a 
sloping  field,  the  fine  rain  driving  in  our  faces, 
and  the  night  coming  on  sheeted  and  drizzly. 
There  was  a nasty  wind  that  blew  stertorously 
among  the  wet  trees,  and  as  we  approached  the 
old  shed,  it  lifted  and  banged  some  loose  portion 
of  the  structure  with  a snappish  clatter.  I felt 
that  the  season  had  put  on  its  shroud  and  was 
wailing  hideously.  I thought  of  a cosey  corner 
in  my  restaurant,  where  there  was  apt  to  be  at  this 
hour  a pleasant  odour  of  cut  roses  and  black  coffee, 
and  a lively  gathering  of  gourmands,  with  jaded 
appetites  for  a late  dinner.  I found  myself  once 
or  twice  turning  round,  rather  mechanically,  to 
call  a cab,  and  then  the  wind  slapped  me  in  the 
face.  And  all  the  time  the  perennial  and  inex- 
tinguishable Doctor  sustained  a really  superior 
complacency  of  indifference  to  anything  but  his 
own  authoritative  babble.  “ If  a man  can  learn 
to  laugh  with  vital  defiance  at  these  beneficent 
ordinances  of  the  atmosphere,”  he  said,  “ he  will 
in  time  arrive  at  the  supreme  stoicism  that  can 
take  Death  by  the  hand  and  call  him  a jolly  good 
fellow.” 


194 


STRAMONIUM 


The  remark  rather  overreached  me  at  the  mo- 
ment, for  I was  holding  my  hat  on  with  one  hand, 
and  its  flapping  in  my  face  interfered  with  the 
proper  reflective  processes. 

The  old  shed  proved  to  be  some  kind  of  a 
forlorn  sheepfold  and  hayrick  combined,  which 
had  evidently  been  long  unused.  It  was  only 
partly  enclosed,  for  its  roof  was  half  gone,  and  one 
end  of  it  was  open  to  the  elements.  What  was 
formerly  the  entrance  was  flanked  by  two  great 
weeds,  six  feet  high,  very  green  and  lush,  and  still 
bearing  a few  large  white  trumpet-flowers,  that 
shone  through  the  gathering  gloom  quite  funere- 
ally, I thought. 

“ Stramonium,”  said  the  Doctor,  actually  stop- 
ping to  investigate  it  as  if  he  had  met  an  old 
friend.  “ I never  saw  it  in  bloom  so  late.” 

With  sullen  disregard  of  his  triviality  I got 
inside  the  pen,  and,  finding  that  one  end  of  it  was 
dry  with  a thatch  over  it,  I leaned  up  against  one 
of  the  old  posts  and  remarked : — 

cc  There  must  be  a house  somewhere  to  match 
this  outwork.  We  might  as  well  find  it  before 
night  sets  in.” 

“ It  has  set  in,”  said  the  Doctor.  “ We  should 
probably  wander  round  for  an  hour  looking  for  it. 
You  cannot  see  twenty  feet  ahead  of  you.” 

£C  That’s  cheerful,”  I said.  <cWe  can’t  stay 
here — -that’s  certain.  I’m  wet  through  and  chilled 
to  the  bone.  You  seem  to  have  forgotten  that 
I’m  your  patient.” 

He  had  put  one  of  the  trumpet-flowers  in  the 
195 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

lapel  of  his  coat,  as  if  he  were  going  to  an  evening 
party,  and  was  wiping  his  face  and  neck  with  a 
white  handkerchief. 

“ Quite  right,’’  he  replied.  “ Suppose  you  go 
on.  It  will  be  as  dark  as  Erebus  in  half  an  hour. 
After  you  have  wandered  in  the  mud  for  a while, 
you  will  probably  walk  off  a bank  or  tumble  into 
a hole.  It’s  usually  the  way  with  men  who  seek 
comfort  instead  of  accepting  it ; I’ll  stay  here  and 
give  thanks  as  the  animals  probably  did  before  we 
got  here.” 

“ Spend  the  night  in  this  cow-shed  ? ” I asked, 
with  as  much  bitterness  as  incredulity  could 
muster. 

“ Cow-shed,”  he  repeated,  drawing  himself  up 
with  admirable  inflation.  “ An  ark  of  refuge, 
sir.  There  are  no  cow-sheds  in  a healthy  mind. 
You  are  too  particular.  I suppose  if  a man 
offered  you  a last  straw,  you  would  want  to  know 
if  it  was  wheat  or  rye.  Cow-shed  — we’ll  make 
this  pavilion  glow  like  the  morning  star.” 

cc  Doctor,”  I said,  cc  there  seems  to  be  a sort  of 
gallery  at  this  end  of  the  ark.  I suppose  it  was 
intended  for  fodder  in  the  pastoral  age.  I’ll 
climb  up  and  see  if  I can  discern  a hospitable 
light  in  the  neighbourhood.” 

cc  Do,”  said  he ; “ there  are  some  remnants  of 
a ladder  against  the  siding.  Be  sure  of  the  floor- 
ing or  you  will  come  through.  If  you  see  a 
friendly  gleam  sing  out  c Sail  ho  ! ’ ” 

I scrambled  up  as  best  I could,  and  found  the 
loft  heaped  with  corn-husks  and  stalks  that 

196 


STRAMONIUM 


rustled  sharply  under  my  exploring  foot.  After 
much  crawling  and  stumbling  and  groping,  I 
found  a crack  in  the  siding.  As  I put  my  eye 
to  it  a sharp  arrow  of  wet  wind  came  through 
it  and  transfixed  me.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  darkening  rain-gusts,  with  sombre 
smears  of  hills  and  ghastly  fields.  As  far  as  I 
could  penetrate,  the  rain  was  coming  down 
steadily  in  business-like  sheets  of  desolation. 
When  I came  to  the  edge  of  the  platform  and 
looked  down,  there  was  the  Doctor  some  ten  feet 
below  me  with  his  coat  off,  whistling  “ Lead, 
Kindly  Light/’  and  trying  to  scratch  a damp 
match.  I looked  at  him  with  curious  interest. 
“What  are  you  trying  to  do?”  I asked. 

“ I am  trying  to  get  supper,”  he  answered 
without  looking  up.  “ How’s  the  bedroom  ? 
Dry  ? ” 

I believe  I tried  to  execute  a true  metropolitan 
sneer  and  drop  it  on  him,  but  it  went  off  half 
cocked  into  a derisive  chuckle,  and  he  called  up 
to  me : “If  there  are  any  dry  corn-cobs  up  there, 
shove  ’em  down.  They  make  a peat  fire.” 

I believe  I pushed  a half  a ton  of  corn-cobs 
down  with  my  foot,  making  as  much  dust  as 
possible,  and  then  I climbed  down  myself.  No 
man  with  the  slightest  vestige  of  his  primitive 
masculinity  surviving  could  withstand  the  Doc- 
tor’s defiant  jollity  of  spirit.  I soon  found  my- 
self piling  corn-cobs  “ criss-cross,”  and  watching 
the  Doctor  down  on  his  marrow-bones  blowing 
at  the  husks  he  had  lighted,  which  presently  broke 

197 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


out  into  a flickering  flame  and  sent  up  a thread 
of  scented  smoke,  whereupon  he  stepped  back 
and  admired  it  as  if  he  had  seen  a patient  coming 
out  of  a syncope.  I placed  armful  after  armful 
of  the  cobs  on  end  around  the  little  blaze  and 
saw  them  with  boyish  delight  turn  into  glowing 
coals  and  totter  over  into  a bed  of  ashes,  the  pile 
throwing  out  a pleasant  warmth  and  a phosphores- 
cent glow  that  changed  the  whole  aspect  of  affairs. 
The  rain  rattled  on  the  siding  and  came  at  times 
in  windy  swashes  that  made  the  old  structure 
bend  and  creak,  but  it  only  added  to  the  glow 
of  our  fire  that  made  a pleasant  circle  of  red 
light  and  threw  our  moving  shadows  in  grotesque 
silhouettes  against  the  walls.  We  hung  our  cor- 
duroy jackets  on  some  projecting  boards  to  dry 
and  frisked  round  in  our  flannel  shirts.  Finding 
two  short  logs,  which  at  some  time  had  evidently 
been  used  as  milking-stools,  the  Doctor  tore  off 
a loose  board  and  extemporized  a little  table, 
upon  which  he  spread  the  remnants  of  a lunch 
that  he  drew  from  his  capacious  pockets.  Then, 
seeing  it  laid  out,  he  took  the  trumpet-flower 
from  his  coat  and  stuck  it  in  a crack  of  the  board 
as  a decorative  touch,  and  gave  himself,  with 
many  airs  of  connoisseurship,  to  the  roasting  of 
his  pet  potatoes,  an  exquisite  job  which  consisted 
in  “ chucking  them  into  the  ashes  ” and  not  let- 
ting them  burn  up. 

I recall  now  with  reminiscent  pleasure  how  my 
old  friend  wooed  me  into  the  boyishness  of  all 
this,  making  me  forget  all  my  discomfort,  and 

198 


STRAMONIUM 


before  I was  well  aware  of  it,  cajoling  me  into  the 
improvisation  with  a clear  zest.  What  would 
I not  give  if  I had  a picture  of  that  pair  of  vol- 
untary gypsies,  sitting  there  in  the  glow,  under 
a canopy  of  smoke,  making  ogreish  shadows  and 
eating  their  baked  potatoes  with  chop-sticks,  as 
if  they  were  Olympians,  the  Doctor’s  own  glow 
outshining  the  fire,  and  answering  the  gust  out- 
side with  heartier  gusts  of  laughter  within.  He 
had  to  initiate  me  into  the  esoterics  of  baked 
potato.  When  he  pulled  the  black  lumps  out 
of  the  fire,  and  burned  his  fingers,  and  danced  the 
cancan,  and  slapped  his  flanks  before  he  landed 
the  charcoal  on  the  board,  his  antic  shadow  filled 
me  with  juvenile  mirth,  and,  wraiths  of  Arden 
and  ghosts  of  Lincoln  Green,  how  I laughed  ! 

“ Charcoal  is  good  for  the  stomach,  I suppose,” 
I remarked,  as  I looked  at  the  burned  chunks. 

“ Charcoal,”  he  cried,  snapping  his  burnt 
fingers.  “ Ambrosia.  You  take  him  up  in  a 
corn-husk,  thus,  like  a napkin,  knock  the  top  off, 
this  way,  put  in  a goodly  chunk  of  butter,  and, 
gods  of  the  cuisine  ! tamales  and  yams  and  bread- 
fruit hide  themselves  in  tropic  insignificance.” 

I have  often  tried  since  to  restore  that  potato 
episode,  but  it  cannot  be  done  without  corn-cobs, 
and,  I suspect,  a cow-shed.  The  range  oven 
kills  the  delicious  earthy  aroma.  The  potato 
must  be  tumbled  into  the  hot  ashes,  and  all  the 
essences  driven  in  and  confined  in  a jacket  of 
charcoal.  “ There  is  just  the  difference,”  said 
the  Doctor,  “ in  eating  the  fruit  this  way  and 

199 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


eating  it  embalmed  by  a French  restaurateur,  that 
there  is  in  hearing  a fine  oration  and  reading  the 
report  of  it  the  next  morning.  A potato  must 
be  smelted  in  its  own  ashes.  Then  it  has  the 
fine  flavour  of  martyrdom  combined  with  the 
aroma  of  Father  Prout.” 

Then  that  roistering  old  savant,  shut  off  from 
his  own  world  by  the  whistling  rain,  actually 
became  jovial,  as  if  the  potato,  properly  baked, 
was  intoxicating ; and  before  I knew  it  he  was 
trolling  a stave  of  an  old  and  forgotten  song : — 


“ At  all  feasts,  if  enough, 

I most  heartily  stuff. 

And  a song  at  my  heart  alike  rushes. 

Though  I’ve  not  fed  my  lungs 
Upon  nightingale’s  tongues, 

Nor  the  brains  of  goldfinches  or  thrushes.” 

This  struck  me  as  being  somewhat  reckless. 
I had  my  doubts  about  the  philosophy,  but  he 
cut  me  short  by  saying,  “ Some  doubts  are  like 
dirty  water ; let  them  alone  and  they  will  evapo- 
rate ” ; and  then  he  pulled  out  the  white  flower, 
saying,  “ we  live  in  a world  of  similitudes  — that’s 
stramonium.” 

“ Yes,  you  said  that  before.  Go  ahead.  There 
seems  to  be  a text  in  it.” 

“ It’s  a symbol  that  has  baffled  man  ever  since 
the  time  of  Pliny.  It  belongs  to  the  reptilian 
class  of  plants  and  has  followed  in  the  footsteps 
of  man  ever  since  the  Fall.  Unlike  the  gentian, 

200 


STRAMONIUM 


it  flaunts  itself  all  about  his  beaten  tracks  and 
reminds  him  of  the  snake  story.  No  one  ever 
found  it  in  the  wilderness.” 

“ It  looks  something  like  a morning-glory.” 
“That’s  it.  I suppose  it  tries  to  imitate  the 
morning-glory  round  the  cow-sheds,  and  children 
who  mistake  it  often  die.  A strange,  occult,  ser- 
pentine plant  with  a virus  in  it.  If  you  put  a 
white  man  down  in  Africa  or  Alaska,  up  it  comes 
for  the  first  time  with  its  trumpet-flower.  Pliny 
calls  it  Nepenthe  and  says  the  sibyls  drank 
its  juice.  The  negroes  along  the  James  River 
have  a superstition  that  if  you  put  the  leaves 
under  your  pillow,  you  will  dream  of  snakes.” 
“All  of  which  is  very  interesting,  Doctor,  in 
materia  medica,  but  will  you  kindly  come  to  the 
similitude  ? ” 

“ Doesn’t  it  grow  in  society  ? Haven’t  you 
encountered  the  trumpet-flower  in  life,  so  like  a 
morning-glory,  with  a fang  under  it  ? Haven’t 
you  seen  men  wear  it  on  their  breasts  and  then 
dream  of  snakes  ? Isn’t  it  rather  strange  that  the 
earth’s  flora  should  spring  its  Marguerites  and  its 
Messalinas  — flowers  that  hide  away  and  almost 
die  if  you  touch  them,  like  the  mimosa,  and 
flowers  that  flaunt  themselves  at  the  doorways  and 
hold  out  brazen  corolla  like  that,  always  growing 
where  the  soil  is  rank  ? ” 

“ Let  me  look  at  it.  It  has  a peculiar  odour, 
slightly  fetid.” 

“ But  it  does  not  shrink  if  you  handle  it.” 

“ What  are  its  medical  results  ? ” 


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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

<c  Dilatation,  delirium,  incoherence,  frenzy, 
death.  Throw  it  away.” 

“ I’ll  drop  it  in  the  fire,  see?  Let’s  change  the 
subject.  I never  did  care  much  for  trumpet- 
flowers.” 

“ My  dear  fellow,  your  knowledge  of  flowers  is 
very  limited.  You  obtained  it  in  a hothouse. 
You  think  they  were  created  for  buttonholes. 
There  are,  however,  some  kinds  that  die  there, 
and  then  men  throw  them  away.” 

“ Oh,  nonsense.  Don’t  reduce  me  to  the 
traditional  brute.  There  are  flowers  which,  if 
they  once  take  root  in  a man’s  soul,  embower  and 
sanctify  his  whole  life,  and  then  he  sits,  as  the  old 
seer  said,  under  his  own  vine  and  fig  tree.” 

At  which  the  Doctor  took  his  cigar  out  of  his 
mouth,  emitted  a long,  low  whistle,  and  then 
throwing  the  stump  into  the  fire,  said : — 
cc  Suppose  we  go  upstairs  to  bed.” 

Then  it  was  that  Cuyp  or  some  other  Dutch- 
man should  have  seen  us  climbing  up  that  old 
ladder,  the  yellow  dog  barking  after  us  with  alarm, 
as  if  he  thought  we  were  leaving  the  earth. 

And  so,  we  rolled  ourselves  in  husks,  pulled 
the  dry  stalks  under  our  heads,  and  with  a canopy 
of  smoke  over  us,  fell  asleep  like  two  tired  gyp- 
sies, the  yellow  dog  keeping  watch  by  the  embers 
below,  and  we  never  knowing  until  morning  broke 
that  the  field  mice  ran  over  us  all  night. 


202 


CHAPTER  XVII 

CHESTNUTS  BY  THE  WAY 

“ A MAN  at  sixty,”  said  the  Doctor,  cc  is  apt 
jfA.  to  find  himself  opening  an  account  with 
life.  He  starts  a set  of  books  in  his  con- 
sciousness and  begins  a debit  and  credit  account, 
striking  daily  balances.  Owe  so  much  to  sleep  ; 
paid  out  so  much  to  a late  supper ; borrowed  of 
enthusiasm ; lost  by  last  night’s  emotions,  etc. 
He  becomes  the  banker  of  his  own  blood,  trying 
by  hoarding  his  supplies  to  keep  himself  in  cir- 
culation. It  is  the  first  stage  of  an  insidious  de- 
crepitude to  take  care  of  one’s  self.  He  has  lost 
the  divine  gift  of  heedless  enthusiasms ; those 
noble  impulses  that  lifted  him  headlong  over 
every  barrier  with  an  aerated  optimism  that 
winged  him  with  a godlike  recklessness.  I have 
a great  admiration  for  the  superb  animality  of 
youth.  Every  man  of  sixty  has.” 

“ I do  not  see  why  he  should  have,”  I ven- 
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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

tured  to  remark,  “ when  he,  like  you,  has  pre- 
served so  much  of  it.” 

“ But  I have  to  try  to  preserve  it,  my  dear  fel- 
low. That’s  the  rub.  If  I had  known  as  much 
at  your  age  as  I know  now,  I would  have  let  it 
preserve  itself.” 

“ Oh,  it  has,  Doctor.  It  has  ; believe  me.” 

It  was  still  October,  and  six  o’clock  in  the 
morning.  We  were  miles  from  nowhere,  stand- 
ing side  by  side  in  a fall  exhibition,  where  every 
picture  was  on  the  line,  and  all  the  artists  had 
gone  away. 

I suppose  it  is  the  crowning  futility  of  senti- 
mentalism to  try  and  remember  all  the  sunrises 
and  sunsets  of  one’s  heydays.  It  only  adds  to 
one’s  late  pathos  in  life  to  open  his  old  album  and 
smile  wearily  at  the  souvenirs  that  have  grown 
meaningless.  How  many  pages  with  a crisp  rem- 
nant of  perished  stalk  or  leaf,  and  under  it  the 
attempt  to  fasten  the  fleeting  emotion  in  words  — 

“ A happy  day  at ,”  or  “ A little  souvenir  of 

unalloyed  brightness.”  How  clumsily  we  try  to 
climb  back  on  these  faded  memorials  to  suggested 
heights,  and  how  invariably  we  give  it  up  with  the 
appalling  conviction  that  the  emotion,  whatever  it 
was,  belonged  only  to  that  hour,  like  the  flower. 
But  here  and  there  some  sunrises  burn  themselves 
into  the  page  of  our  experience  without  our  aid, 
and  they  stay  like  the  golden  shield  that  some  one 
hangs  upon  our  wall,  catching  the  same  old  light 
even  when  our  eyes  have  grown  dim. 

I can  see  now  that  those  sunrises  were  only  half 
204 


CHESTNUTS  BY  THE  WAY 


on  the  horizon.  The  other  half  was  in  the  soul. 
If  there  is  not  a responsive  luminary  within  that 
rises  with  equal  gladness  and  stretches  out  a kin- 
dred ray,  then  are  we  cattle.  I think  it  is  well  to 
keep  an  album  for  these  daybreaks  of  the  soul. 
Not  that  it  shall  be  shown,  but  that  it  may  shine 
permanently  into  one’s  own  private  darks.  And 
I am  free  to  confess  that  I should  never  have 
made  this  discovery  of  my  own  sunrise  if  the 
Doctor  had  not  been  along  with  me  and  in  his 
own  vital  way  pointed  out  to  me  that  if  there  are 
any  darks  at  all,  it  is  the  fault  of  our  vision. 

Six  o’clock  of  an  October  morning,  and  two 
men  of  the  world,  mind  you,  standing  by  the  side 
of  a cow-shed,  drunken  with  the  prospect ; actu- 
ally struck  dumb  for  a few  moments  by  the  blaz- 
onry of  the  regularly  uneventful.  The  sun  was 
coming  up  behind  the  distant  trees.  We  looked 
at  it  as  if  it  were  a revelation.  My  idea  of  a sun- 
rise was  of  something  placidly  grand ; a kind  of 
orbed  and  systematic  attention  to  business  ; some- 
thing superbly  unperturbed  and  inevitable  and 
too  far  off  to  elicit  more  than  a respectful  awe. 
But  this  sunrise  had  a reckless  dance  in  it.  We 
had  caught  the  old  orb  unawares  in  a positive 
dithyramb,  and  as  I watched  the  choric  rhythmus 
in  the  trees,  flashing  and  leaping  amid  the  gnarled 
branches  that  took  on  grotesque  involutions  — 
in  one  blessed  instant  I felt  sure  that  there  were 
satyrs  and  fauns,  wet  with  the  cool  dew,  cavorting 
in  Attic  exuberance  under  those  trees. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  our  outlook  the  groves 
205 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


along  the  high  ground  were  beginning  to  breathe 
in  colours  at  the  top  in  a long  rim  of  deepening 
dyes,  with  measureless  chasms  of  changing  shad- 
ows at  the  bottom,  that  opened  depth  after  depth 
of  colour  as  the  light  crawled  down.  There  were 
some  gray  clouds  outstretched  above,  like  spectral 
arms  in  a benediction,  and  as  we  looked,  they 
softly  receded  blushingly,  like  belated  ghosts,  as 
the  king  in  his  majesty  came  revelling  up. 

The  Doctor  looked  at  me.  “ So  Dionysos 
and  Arion  saw  it,”  he  said.  “ So  the  shepherd- 
poet  saw  it,  on  the  edge  of  the  vanishing  night, 
when  he  stood  with  his  flocks  in  the  fields  of  Pal- 
estine and  called  on  the  hills  to  clap  their  hands, 
which  you  can  see  they  are  now  doing.  I can 
pick  out  every  psalm  that  was  inspired  by  the 
daybreak ; there  is  a lusty  elemental  crow  in  it. 
How  is  your  sense  of  smell  this  morning?  Do 
you  detect  a flavor  of  fried  ham  on  this  atmos- 
phere ? There  is  a little  pillar  of  smoke  twisting 
up  under  that  hill.  I dare  say  now  that  we  can 
get  some  c biled  coffee  ’ there.  Let  us  on.” 

He  was  right.  We  stood  up  in  a big  summer 
kitchen  among  some  stalwart  farm  hands  and 
took  our  bowls  of  “ biled  coffee  ” ravenously.  It 
was  heavy  and  yellow  with  cream.  It  had  a 
humble  “ body  ” that  no  French  distillation  ever 
had.  What  it  lacked  in  aroma  it  made  up  in  fibre. 
The  windows  were  wide  open.  The  stiff  west- 
ern breeze  blew  through  and  wrapped  the  frocks 
of  the  maids  about  their  legs,  as  they  waited  on 
us,  and  the  men  in  their  shirt-sleeves  were  bois- 

206 


CHESTNUTS  BY  THE  WAY 


terously  good-natured  and  rudely  gallant.  I 
retain  a vivid  picture  in  my  memory  of  a broad- 
hipped, red-faced,  bare-armed  Gretchen  with  an 
enormous  loaf  of  home-made  bread  against  her 
breast,  as  she  drew  a big  knife  through  it,  and 
cut  off  a slice  as  big  and  as  thick  as  a sirloin 
steak,  and  handed  it  on  the  point  of  the  knife  to 
a handsome  fellow,  who  immediately  poured  the 
molasses  over  it  and  fell  to  devouring  it  with  a 
carnivorous  zest  that  was  softened  and,  I might 
say,  enamelled  by  his  smile  and  his  white  teeth. 
So  intent  was  I on  these  happy  rustics,  and  so 
easily  did  they  lit  themselves  into  the  oxygen 
and  translucence  of  the  morning,  without  taking 
any  heed,  that  they  grew  in  my  fancy  perilously 
near  to  being  the  fauns  and  satyrs  that  the  sun 
and  my  vagrant  fantasy  had  evoked,  and  the  half 
hour  went  by  without  my  knowing  it. 

When  we  set  out  on  our  journey,  we  easily 
walked  out  of  a reality  into  an  illusion  that  had 
been  warmed  by  the  morning.  The  air  was  what 
Shakspere  called  “ nipping  and  eager,”  but  we 
enjoyed  it  as  one  does  the  grip  of  a strong  hand 
or  the  prickle  of  the  surf.  We  were  both  unusu- 
ally springy  in  step  and  full-lunged,  and  the  Doctor 
assured  me  that  it  was  not  alone  the  oxygen,  but 
the  disencumberment.  I dare  say  he  was  right. 
I remember  that  morning  now  because  the  world 
suddenly  appeared  to  be  deeper,  calmer,  and  less 
dependent  on  anything  I could  do  in  it,  which  I 
understood  later,  thanks  to  the  Doctor,  was  a 
symptom  of  health.  Some  of  the  things  the 

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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

Doctor  had  said  began  to  take  on  a new  light  at 
the  top.  “ If  you  want  to  see  how  beautiful  the 
world  is,  go  up  on  the  mountain.  If  you  want 
to  know  how  brave  and  patient  it  is,  go  down  in 
the  coal  mine.  There  are  sunrises  even  in  disas- 
ter.I have  tried  that  sentence  on  others  since, 
just  to  see  if  they  had  any  auroral  apprehension. 
Some  lights  were  beginning  to  burn  for  me  along 
lower  ranges,  and  these  steady  little  lamps  seemed 
to  have  been  lit  by  the  sun. 

When  we  looked  back  at  our  hayrick,  it  was 
turned  into  a golden  dome  against  the  western 
sky,  and  the  naked  fields  beyond  were  trying  to 
wrap  their  furrows  in  pink  scarfs.  We  came  to  a 
bit  of  table-land  intersected  by  the  road,  and  by 
this  time  the  sun  was  above  the  trees,  with  one  or 
two  islands  of  transparent  coral  floating  over  its 
lower  limb.  As  the  rays  fell  across  the  higher 
levels,  they  tipped  every  detail  with  rosy  light,  and 
all  at  once  we  saw  the  old  earth  at  her  morning 
sacrifice,  sending  up  incense  from  a thousand  altars. 

By  the  side  of  the  road  stood  a magnificent 
chestnut  tree.  It  was  one  of  the  bronzes  that 
October  keeps  in  reserve  for  her  exhibition  day. 
It  lifted  its  great  splendour  against  the  deep  blue 
like  a knight  in  golden  armour.  We  both  stood  a 
moment  at  some  little  distance,  caught  open-eyed 
by  the  magic  of  its  transformation,  without  sus- 
pecting that  we  had  ourselves  been  magically 
transformed  into  artists.  I wondered  like  a child 
at  the  alchemy  of  light,  that  could  turn  blood  and 
rust  and  earthly  ochres  into  such  burnished  efful- 

208 


CHESTNUTS  BY  THE  WAY 


gence.  The  great  bole  of  the  tree  came  down 
and  gnarled  itself  into  the  earth  with  mighty  con- 
volutions. The  bursting  burrs  had  been  shaken 
down  by  the  wind,  and  they  shone  in  the  dead 
leaves  like  lumps  of  flesh  as  the  rays  picked  them 
out. 

“ We  have  caught  the  atoms  at  their  Orphic 
hymn,”  said  the  Doctor,  softly. 

Under  the  tree,  hunting  in  the  dead  leaves, 
were  two  children  with  little  tin  pails,  such  as  one 
sees  in  the  stores  with  lard  in  them.  The  elder, 
a boy  of  eight,  barefooted,  was  running  heedlessly 
among  the  burrs,  intent  only  on  filling  his  pail. 
The  other,  a girl  of  six,  was  digging  her  plump 
fist  into  her  eyes  and  holding  her  little  head  down 
in  inexpressible  sorrow.  As  we  came  up,  she 
made  a start  like  a bird  as  if  to  run,  and  the 
Doctor  caught  her.  cc  What’s  the  matter,  my  little 
maid?”  he  said.  cc  Are  you  cold  ? ” 

“ Oh,  she’s  afraid  of  the  burrs,”  said  the  boy. 
“ A girl’s  no  good  to  pick  chestnuts,  anyway.” 

He  had  his  pail  half  full  and  went  on  with  his 
gathering  quite  disdainfully.  The  Doctor  lifted 
the  little  woman  up  into  the  air,  and  I looked 
into  her  pail.  There  were  two  miserable  chest- 
nuts rattling  on  the  bottom,  and  one  was  wormy. 
As  he  held  her  there  a moment,  she  looked  like 
a chestnut  herself,  so  ripe  and  brown.  Her  two 
plump  little  cheeks  were  just  as  hard  and  inviting, 
and  her  swimming  eyes  were  the  same  colour. 
H er  little  brown  legs  hung  down,  only  half- 
covered  with  stockings,  and  her  plump  pads  of 

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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

feet  were  covered  with  broken  slippers,  into  which 
the  prickles  of  the  burrs  were  saucily  sticking. 
She  wore  a dilapidated  chip  hat,  with  a bit  of  blue 
ribbon  on  it,  and  under  it  the  chestnut  curls  were 
trying  to  imitate  the  tree  above  her  with  golden 
interlacing  and  burnished  strands. 

“ Why,  you  poor  little  mother  spark,”  said  the 
Doctor,  kissing  her  squarely  on  the  bulgy  cheek, 
and  throwing  her  up  on  one  arm,  as  he  took  the 
pail  in  his  other  hand.  “ He  wouldn’t  even  pull 
the  prickles  out  of  your  shoes,  the  young  Indian.” 
cc  He  don’t  tare  a bit,”  said  the  chestnut,  as  her 
arm  went  round  the  Doctor’s  neck. 

<c  Of  course  he  doesn’t ; boys  don’t  care  for 
anything.  But  we’ll  just  beat  him  dead.  You 
and  I’ll  fill  the  pail.  Don’t  cry  any  more.  Let 
me  wipe  the  wet  off  your  chubby  little  face.” 

“ I don’t  like  to  hunt  for  chesn’s,”  she  said. 
And  this  conveyed  to  the  Doctor  the  whole 
inscrutable  sex  difference  in  these  germs.  She 
wasn’t  interested  in  chestnuts.  Her  heart  was 
broken  because  chestnuts  had  made  the  only 
companion  she  had  utterly  indifferent  to  her. 
It  was  like  discovering  a tiny  rill  of  the  universal 
sweet  water  trying  to  come  up  between  the  stones 
and  the  stubble. 

“ Of  course,  of  course,  what  can  you  expect 
of  a puppy  man  ? He’s  young  and  inhuman. 
Look  at  me,  my  dear.” 

I think  the  spark  of  woman  understood  clearly 
what  the  Doctor  did  not  say,  namely,  that  he  was 
old  and  sympathetic,  for  she  wound  her  brown 

210 


CHESTNUTS  BY  THE  WAY 


arm  round  his  burly  neck  and  looked  down  at 
the  indifferent  cub  very  much  as  if  she  had  come 
to  her  inalienable  rights. 

“ I’ll  tell  you  what  we’ll  do.  You  shall  sit  on 
the  sheltered  side  of  that  trunk,  on  one  of  those 
roots,  and  we’ll  fill  your  pail.  How  does  that 
strike  your  ladyship  ? ” 

I suppose  it  struck  her  ladyship  as  the  only 
proper  course  that  should  have  been  followed 
from  the  first.  The  Doctor  carried  her  across 
the  carpeted  space  made  by  the  great  canopy  of 
the  tree,  the  side  lights  hitting  her  with  successive 
shafts  as  she  passed,  and  the  shadows  dappling 
her  with  a kind  of  bo-peep.  He  set  her  high  up 
on  a root,  pulled  the  prickles  out  of  her  broken 
slipper,  put  the  latchet  round  her  ankle,  and 
placed  the  pail  in  her  lap.  I had  already  picked 
up  a handful  of  the  nuts,  and  I walked  up  and 
turned  them  obediently  into  the  pail,  where  they 
made  a loud  tinkle.  The  Doctor  had  to  put  on 
his  glasses  to  do  his  share.  The  boy  looked  at 
him  with  momentary  surprise,  and  then  concen- 
trated all  his  contempt  into  one  brief  remark : 
“Well,  I’ll  be  dod  gormed  ! ” But  the  young 
scamp  managed  to  keep  just  ahead  of  the  Doctor 
and  snatch  the  best  prizes,  until  he  got  a shove 
from  a lusty  foot  that  rolled  him  over,  at  which 
there  came  a little  piccolo  burst  of  laughter  from 
the  tree-trunk.  The  acorn  of  a woman  was 
already  the  little  lady  of  the  joust,  for  whose 
smiles  we  were  digging  into  the  dead  leaves  with 
our  gloves  on. 


21 1 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

cc  If  we  succeed  in  outdoing  that  cub,”  I re- 
marked, <c  I should  not  be  surprised  to  see  the 
little  lady  take  that  blue  ribbon  off  her  hat  and 
pin  it  on  your  coat,  Sir  Launcelot.” 

“ The  little  fraud,”  replied  the  Doctor,  <c  do 
you  see  how  she  is  trying  to  stimulate  us  with 
baby  smiles?  They  get  out  of  their  cradles  ready- 
made, and  Em  not  punning  either.” 

We  stopped  to  argue,  and  the  boy  beat  us.  In 
a contest  of  brains  and  juvenile  brawn,  brains  will 
get  the  worst  of  it  when  chestnutting.  While  the 
Doctor  was  throwing  one  of  his  sarcasms  around, 
the  cub  filled  his  pail. 

cc  Woman,”  said  the  Doctor,  cc  is  always  a hal- 
lucination. Even  at  six  she  sits  on  a throne 
regally  and  reigns  without  governing.” 

Then  the  boy,  having  accomplished  his  task, 
proposed  that  one  of  us  climb  up  and  thrash  the 
tree,  if  we  wanted  to  fill  the  other  pail,  and  I 
quite  fell  in  with  this  humorous  idea,  for  certainly 
nothing  could  be  more  jolly  than  to  see  the  Doc- 
tor in  his  spectacles  clasping  that  tree  with  his 
arms  and  legs  while  I “ boosted  ” him  up,  and 
the  little  maid  clapping  her  hands,  and  the  yellow 
dog  going  round  about  like  a clown  round  a circus 
pole. 

But  the  Doctor  paid  no  attention  to  the  sug- 
gestion, and  lifting  the  little  brown  maiden  on  his 
shoulder,  we  started  up  the  road,  I carrying  the 
pail. 


212 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

OUT  IN  THE  COLD 

THE  first  frost  that  touched  us  in  the  waning 
October  had  gloves  on.  It  was  gentle  and 
uncertain.  It  left  little  filmy  crystals, 
exquisitely  wrought,  clinging  helplessly  close 
along  the  still  fringes  of  the  pools.  I under- 
stood by  these  first  tiny  shoots  that  winter  germi- 
nated like  spring,  having  its  tender  pellicles  and 
fragile  blades ; the  infancy,  in  fact,  of  its  flower- 
ing life,  afterward  to  bloom  like  a great  camel- 
lia in  snowdrifts,  and  come  to  its  autumn  of 
falling  icicles  and  asthmatic  gusts.  The  first 
efflorescence  of  the  bleak  season  was,  therefore, 
curiously  infantile.  I had  never  had  my  atten- 
tion called  to  it  before,  and  now  it  seemed  as  if 
I had  been  in  at  the  birth.  It  was  like  a new 
intimacy  with  the  old  sovereign  system.  Per- 
haps there  was  in  me  some  molecular  response, 
as  there  is  in  the  capillary  hearts  of  the  oak  and 
the  elm,  where  arcane  saps  rise  and  fall  in  the 

213 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

great  swing  of  the  universal  tides.  The  first 
fretwork  of  the  winter  seemed  rather  winsome. 
It  was  like  the  goo-goo  of  an  Indian  baby,  as  if 
Boreas  were  not  yet  out  of  his  hyperborean  cra- 
dle, but,  done  up  in  laces,  allowed  you  to  take 
liberties  with  him  before  he  was  able  to  go  upon 
the  war-path.  To  begin  the  better  acquaintance 
with  the  traditional  ruffian  at  this  helpless  stage, 
and  to  see  him  grow  and  bluster  confidentially, 
is  to  rob  him  of  his  traditional  terror. 

In  our  colloquia  peripatetica , my  Virgil,  the 
Doctor,  threw  a good  deal  of  his  delightful  rhap- 
sodical light  upon  the  cold,  but  it  was  less  his 
plunging  philosophy  than  my  new  intimacy  with 
the  reputed  monster  that  stirred  the  vegetable 
sap  of  me,  and  sent  it  to  the  roots  of  things. 

cc  Cold,”  the  Doctor  said,  with  a superb  air  of 
finality,  “ is  man’s  chief  bugaboo,  created  by  his 
sensory  nerves.  He  has  declared  that  heat  is 
life  and  cold  is  death  — a preposterous  conclusion 
that  modern  science  is  doing  its  best  to  upset.” 
He  defied  me  to  furnish  one  scrap  of  revela- 
tion or  analogy  to  show  that  heaven  is  heated ; 
and  all  the  traditions,  he  said,  plainly  set  forth 
that  the  other  place  is.  cc  What  nonsense  it  was 
to  say  that  cold  was  death,  when  cold  absolutely 
interfered  with  all  the  processes  of  death ; and  a 
frozen  man  puts  a stopper  on  dissolution,  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  heat  was  a destroyer,  a con- 
sumer. It  was  the  cold-blooded  animals  that 
lived  the  longest.  Some  of  the  pythons,”  he 
declared,  Cf  had  lived  a thousand  years.”  He 

214 


OUT  IN  THE  COLD 


was  glad  to  know  that  physical  research  in  our 
day  was  unlocking  some  of  the  benign  secrets  of 
the  cold  and  putting  ice  on  the  hypotheses  of  our 
fathers.  There  was  priceless  knowledge  to  be 
drawn  from  the  zero  of  the  ether,  when  men  got 
through  digging  for  the  central  fires. 

Then  the  Doctor,  who,  when  he  touched  upon 
the  secrets  of  his  own  profession,  always  took  on 
a little  hush,  as  if  there  were  some  dire  mysteries 
in  it  that  must  not  be  betrayed  to  lay  ears,  bent 
down  and  said  softly:  “ Invalids  die  of  heat,  not 
of  cold.  Life  is  never  congealed,  it  is  burnt  out ; 
and  when  at  last  the  fires  are  extinguished,  all 
the  combustible  stuff  has  been  purged  away,  and 
if  there  is  any  ethereal  life  it  begins  in  the  cold.” 
“ Nevertheless,  Doctor,”  I said,  cc  I should  not 
like  to  be  caught  on  a prairie  in  a blizzard.” 

“ I have  been,”  he  replied.  “ It  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  lessons  of  the  august  Mother.” 

“ What  is  ? ” 

“To  be  caught  on  the  plains  in  a blizzard,  if 
you  have  with  you  one  or  two  primitive  heathen 
who  obey  Nature  instead  of  defying  her.” 

“ Oh,  of  course,  if  you  have  trained  guides  to 
bring  you  out  in  spite  of  the  benign  Mother.” 

“ That  is  just  what  the  guide  does  not  do.  The 
arrogant  intelligence  of  the  godlike  man  would 
wrestle  with  it  and  get  thrown.  We  hugged  it; 
lay  down  in  it  like  good  children,  and  were  cov- 
ered up  with  warm  blankets  and  tucked  in,  and 
when  morning  broke  we  gave  thanks  and  pursued 
our  journey  on  a crystal  highway.” 

215 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


There  were  always  some  frosty  crystals  in  the 
Doctor’s  talk.  He  invariably  blew  from  the 
west. 

In  such  purposeless  wandering  as  ours  we  were 
sure  to  stumble  on  hamlets  lying  between  the  hills 
snugly,  with  blue  ribbons  of  river  winding  through, 
as  if  the  toy  houses  were  strung  upon  them.  They 
were  all  alike,  sending  up  little  pillars  of  smoke  in 
the  mornings  lazily,  which  spread  out  in  amber 
clouds  above,  that  gave  a sort  of  auroral  drench 
of  brown  sherry  to  the  view.  I suppose  the  con- 
tinent is  dotted  with  them  from  the  Atlantic  to 
the  Pacific ; and  looked  at  from  the  ’vantage- 
ground  of  the  morning  through  the  veil  of  the 
ascending  incense,  these  little  towns  suggest  for 
civilization  the  same  germinative  process  that 
Nature  employs.  They  cling  along  the  little 
rivers  like  the  frost-work,  but  they  have  in  them 
the  enfolded  fibres  of  cities.  To  a man  somewhat 
bruised  by  too  much  life,  the  complacency  of 
these  villages  was  interesting.  They  lacked  cor- 
porate self-consciousness.  A delightful  air  of 
improvisation  hung  over  them,  as  if  the  people 
had  accidentally  met  there,  and,  finding  it  pleas- 
ant, had  concluded  to  stop,  a natural  accretion  and 
solidification  of  dispersed  agricultural  elements 
taking  on  the  first  form  of  social  life.  When  we 
penetrated  into  one  of  these  hamlets  in  search  of 
its  tavern,  these  characteristics  became  more  pro- 
nounced. The  town  held  easily  and  loosely  to- 
gether, linked  by  the  wheelwright,  the  blacksmith, 
the  storekeeper,  and  the  shoemaker,  into  a stout 

216 


OUT  IN  THE  COLD 


associate  chain,  and  it  had  somewhere,  no  doubt, 
the  schoolmaster  and  the  dominie  who  were  the 
dry  batteries  at  each  end  of  it. 

It  was  interesting  to  note  how  large  a place  the 
first  frost  occupied  in  the  minds  of  this  commu- 
nity. Thirty-two  degrees  Fahrenheit  was  in  some 
way  an  event  that  mingled  in  the  morning  salu- 
tations. It  was  the  first  thing  the  landlord  of  the 
tavern  spoke  of.  “ Well/’  he  remarked,  with 
beaming  satisfaction,  “ we  had  a frost  last  night.” 
The  wheelwright  reminded  the  shoemaker  of  it, 
and  the  shoemaker  smiled  and  reminded  the 
storekeeper. 

I had  just  learned  that  a sunrise,  to  my  aston- 
ishment, may  be  an  epoch.  I had  seen  that  com- 
monplace event  turned  into  a pageant,  covering 
the  prosaic  old  earth  with  halos,  so  that  the  dul- 
lard material  took  on  an  atomic  apotheosis.  It 
was  like  a romance  of  Victor  Hugo’s,  in  which  all 
the  scullions  talk  mots , and  the  canaille  act  epi- 
grams ; but  I had  hardly  expected  to  see  the  frost 
poke  its  glittering  needles  into  the  disposition  of 
men  and  lace  their  little  outlooks  with  airy  fili- 
gree. I tried  to  think  of  myself  going  about  in 
Broad  Street,  in  the  morning,  grasping  stock- 
brokers by  the  hand  and  saying,  with  joy  and 
gladness,  u Lift  up  your  eyes,  brother,  it  has 
arrived.” 

“ What  has  arrived.  Colonel  ? ” 

“ The  frost.  She  went  down  to  thirty  degrees 
last  night.  Hurrah  ! ” 

I do  not  say  that  my  fraternal  associates  would 
21 7 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

look  askance  and  begin  to  inquire  how  much 
paper  I had  out,  and  whether  I had  been  buying 
diamonds  lately.  But  by  all  odds  they  would 
wonder  at  the  triviality  of  an  immortal  soul  that 
could  interest  itself  in  the  vagaries  of  the  season, 
when  there  were  so  many  large  events  waiting  on 
the  market. 

But,  of  course,  when  the  markets  are  forgotten 
in  the  wreck  of  matter  with  all  its  events,  the 
frosts  will  still  come,  and  when  the  globe  itself  is 
burned  to  a cinder,  other  suns  will  rise  somewhere, 
and  other  winters  weave  the  same  old  crystals ; 
all  of  which  is  intolerably  eternal  and  preachy,  I 
know,  but  when  the  frost  gets  into  one’s  mind, 
these  films  spin  themselves  across  the  reflection  ; 
and  the  first  frost  had  affected  me  like  the  first 
gray  hairs.  These  confoundedly  complacent  ter- 
mites in  their  village  carried  about  with  them  an 
air  of  self-assurance.  They  gave  you  to  under- 
stand that  their  kerosene  lamps  were  filled  and 
trimmed,  and  their  treasures  laid  up  in  their  cel- 
lars, and  the  world  could  go  hang  itself.  A 
stranger  is  peculiarly  susceptible  * to  this  kind  of 
well-built  impudence  when  the  frost  comes.  He 
rather  enjoys  it  in  August  or  September,  when 
one  can  get  along  without  a kerosene  lamp  or  a 
woodpile,  but  in  late  October  it  puts  him  at  some 
disadvantage.  It  has  the  import  of  a parable,  and 
knocks  gently  at  his  conscience  or  his  moral  thrift 
— shakes  up  his  retrospection,  so  that  he  looks 
through  the  colours  of  his  autumn  for  the  coming 
ghost.  These  fellows,  the  Doctor  said,  were  like 

218 


OUT  IN  THE  COLD 


the  man  who  is  well  insured,  and  when  his  house 
gets  afire,  takes  his  tin  box  and  sits  on  his  lawn, 
and  rather  enjoys  the  effort  of  other  people  to 
stop  the  blaze.  On  the  other  hand,  they  re- 
minded me  of  the  man  in  the  blizzard,  who  wraps 
the  storm  about  him  and  lies  down  to  pleasant 
slumbers.  One  cannot  escape  the  premonitory 
note  in  the  frost. 

I walked  briskly  up  and  down  the  one  street  of 
the  hamlet,  rather  oppressed  by  its  hearty  famil- 
iarity. Everybody  gave  me  a cheery  good-morn- 
ing, and  went  about  his  business  as  if  I were  of 
less  importance  than  the  frost.  So  I was  forced 
in  self-superiority  to  become  retrospective,  and  I 
called  on  my  past  to  come  up  and  shine  for  my 
rescue.  It  was  very  much  like  looking  over  a 
collection  of  old  menus  that  cannot  preserve  the 
appetite.  Fancy  a man  whose  memories  smell  of 
stale  consomme.  How  splendid  my  airy  parabola 
against  the  burrowing  in  the  earth  of  these  con- 
tented souls  ! What  effervescent  feasting  ; what 
memorable  chewings  and  swallowings ; what  rockets 
went  up  night  after  night ; what  siren  faces  swept 
by  with  the  same  set  smiles ; what  a lot  of  sensu- 
ous strains  ; what  exquisite  badinage  ; what  stimu- 
lant mockery  of  each  other  ! Something  told  me 
that  this  was  like  looking  through  the  empyrean 
for  the  lost  sticks  we  sent  up,  as  if  one  could 
recover  the  precious  sizzlings  and  sputterings  and 
coruscating  extinction.  Perhaps,  after  all,  this  is 
where  the  real  weariness  is.  The  truth  of  the 
matter  is,  that  a man  cannot  be  a joyous  vagrant 

219 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

with  a spontaneous  zest  after  the  frost  comes.  It 
drives  the  gayety  of  thought  ahead  of  it  as  it 
drives  the  birds.  There  must  be  cellars  in  a 
man’s  disposition  that  ought  to  be  well  stored 
when  the  cold  sets  in.  Mine  had  a kind  of  echo- 
ing emptiness,  as  if  I had  put  spangles  on  the 
shelves  instead  of  potatoes. 

A man  does  not  see  the  fun  of  wandering 
about  aimlessly  in  the  face  of  a northeast  twister. 
I recalled  that  little  nut-brown  maid  that  the 
Doctor  had  carried  on  his  shoulder,  and  who 
had  given  him  a hug  and  flown  out  into  the 
dark  like  a frightened  bird.  I pictured  him 
clutching  after  it  as  one  will  after  a dream,  when 
he  wakes  up. 

“ We  must  get  back.  Doctor,”  I said,  <c  there’s 
a big  storm  brewing.” 

The  Doctor  looked  at  me.  cc  Metaphorically 
or  literally  ? ” he  asked. 
cc  Literally.” 

“ I’ve  been  making  some  inquiries,”  he  said, 
“ and  it  isn’t  an  easy  matter.  We  are  just  eigh- 
teen miles  from  the  railroad  and  twenty  by  the 
highway  from  Hecuba.  It  is  Hecuba  you  are 
thinking  about,  I suppose.” 

“ I am  thinking  about  a lot  of  things.  Waste 
of  time  is  one  of  them.  I have  something  seri- 
ous to  do.  In  fact,  this  frost  has  given  me  the 
blues,  and  I want  to  get  back.” 

cc  Egad,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ it’s  a good  sign. 
I’ve  often  noticed  that  the  best  way  to  go  on  is  to 
go  back.  But  it’s  damnably  difficult  sometimes. 

220 


OUT  IN  THE  COLD 

There  isn’t  a team  in  this  place  that  we  can  hire 
or  steal.” 

Then,  it  so  happened  that  we  received  a good 
deal  of  wholesome  irony  from  the  butcher  and 
others,  instead  of  sympathy.  They  were  wholly 
unable  to  comprehend  how  anybody  could  get 
somewhere  without  purpose,  and  not  know  how 
to  get  somewhere  else. 

The  exultation  of  these  inhabitants  over  a frost 
that  had  gone,  grew  into  something  like  a wild 
delight  at  the  prospect  of  a coming  “ twister.” 
They  informed  us  on  all  sides  that  a big  storm 
was  brooding  and  as  our  vagabondage  had  ex- 
tended as  far  as  the  Doctor’s  engagements  per- 
mitted, we  began  to  think  about  a conveyance 
to  rattle  us  back  before  the  storm  broke.  The 
landlord  of  the  tavern  looked  at  us  in  blank  help- 
lessness. “ You’ll  find  it  pretty  hard  to  get  a rig, 
I guess,”  he  said.  “ I don’t  know  of  anybody 
who  could  spare  a team  just  to  drive  you  twenty 
miles,  unless  it’s  the  young  man  over  there  that 
works  in  the  wheelwright’s  shop.  He’s  got  a 
horse  that  ain’t  in  use,  but  I don’t  think  he’d 
stop  work  to  harness  him  up.” 

The  Doctor  was  studying  a New  York  paper, 
and  he  called  out  to  me  as  I set  out  to  find 
the  young  wheelwright  — “The  weather  bureau 
predicts  a fierce  spell  of  weather  — a big  storm 
coming  from  the  northwest.” 

Slocum  at  the  best  was  not  a desirable  place  in 
which  to  be  storm-bound.  I hurried  away  and 
entered  the  wheelwright’s  shop.  An  old  man  at 

221 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

a bench  was  working  with  a draw-knife.  As  I 
accosted  him,  he  looked  up  over  his  iron  spec- 
tacles with  a jerk. 

“ Can  you  tell  me  where  I can  get  a team  to 
take  me  back  to  the  Hotchkiss  Farm?  ” I asked. 

“ No,  I can’t,”  said  the  old  man.  cc  I don’t 
keep  teams  to  let.” 

“ But  you  might  know  of  somebody  who 
does.” 

“ Yes,  I might,  but  I don’t.”  And  the  crusty 
old  fellow  resumed  work  with  his  draw-knife. 

<c  I beg  your  pardon  for  supposing  that  you 
had  time  enough  to  answer  a question  civilly,” 
I said.  “ I took  you  for  the  average  human 
being ; ” and  I was  turning  away,  when  a young 
man  who  was  working  under  a wagon  in  the  rear 
of  the  shop  rose  up  and  turned  upon  me  such  a 
frank  and  friendly  countenance  that  it  was  like  a 
burst  of  sunshine. 

“ Did  you  come  from  the  Hotchkiss  Farm  ? ” 
he  asked. 

“ Yes.  There  are  two  of  us.  We  were  taking 
a jaunt  through  the  country  afoot.  There  is  a 
storm  coming  on,  and  we  wish  to  hire  some  one 
to  take  us  back.” 

The  young  man  was  a fine  specimen  of  mascu- 
line strength,  frankness,  and  good  humour.  His 
broad  open  face  invited  confidence. 

u Is  it  important  to  get  back  right  away  ? ” 

“Yes  — rather.  I shouldn’t  like  to  be  left 
here  over  night,  judging  from  what  I have  seen 
of  your  inhabitants.” 


222 


OUT  IN  THE  COLD 


The  young  man  smiled  pleasantly,  and  the  old 
man  said  sharply,  “ You’d  better  stick  to  your 
work  if  you  know  when  you’re  well  off.” 

But  without  paying  the  slightest  attention  to 
him,  his  workman  laid  down  the  tool  that  he  had 
in  his  hand  and  said  : — 

“ I’ll  try  and  see  if  I can  get  you  back,”  and 
took  off  his  apron. 

“You  will  not  lose  anything  by  it,”  I re- 
marked. “ It  will  be  a great  act  of  kindness.” 
“He  won’t,  hey  ? ” snarled  the  old  man. 
“ Mabbee  he’ll  lose  his  job  if  he  neglects  his 
work  for  everybody  that  comes  along.” 

The  young  man  gave  no  heed  to  him,  and 
accompanying  me  to  the  street,  said,  as  he  looked 
at  me  inquiringly,  “ You’re  the  gentleman  who 
is  living  in  the  Hotchkiss  woods ; ” and  he  said  it 
as  if  that  fact  had  some  kind  of  claim  upon  his 
good  nature. 

“ I don’t  want  you  to  lose  your  job  to  accom- 
modate me,”  I remarked. 

“Never  fear,”  he  replied.  “The  old  man 
can’t  get  along  without  me.  If  you  will  go  over 
to  the  tavern  and  wait  for  me.  I’ll  tidy  myself  up 
a bit  and  try  and  get  you  back.” 

I thanked  him  and  rejoined  the  Doctor.  It 
must  have  been  an  hour  before  my  amiable  friend 
appeared  with  a spanking  team  and  properly 
tidied  up.  He  came  out  a handsome  young 
athlete  in  a tweed  suit  and  a derby  hat. 

I said  to  the  Doctor  as  we  saw  him  drive  up, 
“ He  expects  to  bleed  us  handsomely  for  this, 

223 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

I dare  say.”  But  when  we  were  seated  in  the 
vehicle  the  frankness  and  geniality  of  the  fellow 
interested  me.  “ I have  heard  of  you,”  he  said. 
“You  have  a fine  boy.” 

“ Why,  yes,”  I replied.  “ He  and  I are  study- 
ing the  country  and  taking  a vacation.  You  are 
one  of  the  few  interesting  curiosities  I have  met 
here.” 

“ Why  curiosity  ? ” 

“ You  exhibit  a human  quality  that  does  not 
appear  to  grow  wild.” 

He  laughed.  “ You  must  not  take  these  folk 
too  seriously,”  he  said.  “ Their  hardness  is  all 
on  the  surface.  Under  the  crust  they  have  warm 
hearts  and  are  very  stanch.” 

“ But  you  do  not  belong  to  the  order  appar- 
ently.” 

“ Oh,  yes,  I do.  I was  born  here,  and  some- 
times I feel  afraid  that  I have  outgrown  my 
place.” 

“Young  man,”  said  the  Doctor,  “I  hope  you 
will  not  consider  it  impertinent  if  I ask  you  what 
your  place  is.” 

“Not  at  all.  My  place  appears  to  be  to  earn 
ten  dollars  a week  and  support  an  old  and  crip- 
pled mother.  Does  that  interest  you  ? It  doesn’t 
look  very  brilliant  to  you,  I suppose,  but  I’m  not 
kicking.  My  chance  will  come  along  one  of  these 
days,  perhaps.” 

“ It  wouldn’t  be  such  a good  turn  of  luck  if 
your  civility  to  us  cost  you  your  job,”  I said. 

“ Oh,  no  danger  of  that.  The  old  man  would 
224 


OUT  IN  THE  COLD 


have  to  shut  up  shop  without  me.  The  old  man 
is  to  be  pitied.” 

£C  That  would  be  a waste  of  good  material.  I 
prefer  to  pity  you,”  I remarked. 

<£  Oh,  that  would  be  a waste,”  he  said,  with  una- 
bated good  humour.  ££  I can  take  care  of  myself.” 
There  was  a fresh  honest  naivete  about  the 
fellow  that  was  exceedingly  captivating.  For  a 
village  workman,  he  was  surprisingly  intelligent, 
but  his  ambition,  if  he  had  any,  appeared  to  have 
been  merged  in  a comfortable  belief  that  things 
would  come  around  all  right  in  the  end  if  he  only 
plodded  on  faithfully. 

When  he  landed  us  in  front  of  my  hut,  I 
pulled  out  a ten-dollar  bill  and  offered  it  to  him. 
He  rejected  it  with  a kindly  smile,  saying:  — 

££  One  gentleman  can  do  another  a good  turn 
when  it  is  in  his  way,  without  being  paid  for  it.” 
Before  the  Doctor  and  I had  recovered  from 
our  astonishment,  he  was  gone. 


1 


3 

225 


WHEN  the  Doctor  went  away,  I felt  like  the 
prisoner  who  hears  the  departing  foot- 
steps of  his  friends  and  the  shooting  of 
the  bolts.  Now  at  last  I was  in  for  it,  and  no 
mistake.  But  there  were  some  compensations  and 
mitigations,  and  some  quiet  triumphs  — flowers, 
you  will  say,  in  the  condemned  cell.  I was  to 
have  access  to  the  world  by  mail.  The  Doctor 
thought  I had  earned  that  by  not  writing  a letter 
for  four  months.  He  promised  to  send  me  up  a 
box  of  books  from  his  own  library,  and  I gave 
him  an  order  for  an  ample  stock  of  canned  goods. 

When  they  came,  I got  Gabe  to  put  up  some 
pine  shelves  in  the  cabin  in  the  woods  ; and  we 
spent  one  whole  day  arranging  the  place  for  the 
winter,  tightening  the  sash,  putting  in  a few  shin- 
gles on  the  kitchen,  fixing  up  a kennel  for  the  yel- 
low dog,  and  cleaning  the  chimney, — -a  task  which 
Gabe  accomplished  most  successfully  by  dragging 

226 


WOOD  FIRES 


a juniper  bush  up  through  it  to  the  roof,  and  pre- 
cipitating an  amazing  mass  of  old  birds’  nests  and 
egg-shells,  to  say  nothing  of  soot.  Then  I helped 
him  build  a storm  door,  surprising  myself  more 
than  I surprised  him  by  my  dexterity  with  a saw 
and  hammer.  When  the  roughest  of  the  work 
was  done,  Griselle  came  over  and  added  the  fin- 
ishing touches.  She  put  a new  curtain  on  the 
window,  standing  on  the  table  to  tack  it  up,  and  I 
holding  the  table.  When  she  had  fastened  the 
chintz  properly  in  plaits,  she  took  my  hand  and 
jumped  down  like  a springbok,  and  picked  up  the 
large  photograph  of  Charlie’s  mother  that  had 
fallen  on  the  table.  “We  must  tack  that  up,” 
she  said,  “ where  you  study  and  write.” 

“No,”  I protested;  “I’ll  put  it  away  in  my 
trunk.  Photographs  fade  in  the  light.” 

“ I should  think,”  she  said  softly,  as  she  pushed 
a tack  through  it,  “ that  they  would  be  more  apt 
to  fade  if  you  packed  them  out  of  sight.” 

I was  watching  her,  because  she  looked  very 
pretty  in  her  employment.  Did  you  ever  try  to 
read  or  make  out  a picture,  sitting  in  the  cross- 
lights  of  a lamp  and  the  moon  ? How  the  far- 
away beams  confuse  you  ! 

She  sent  over  a pair  of  old  hand-irons  that  she 
had  pulled  out  of  the  garret,  and  what  with  rotten- 
stone  and  ashes,  the  brass  came  out  scintillant  and 
added  a continuous  sparkle  to  the  long  evenings 
for  months  afterward.  She  even  made  a cushion 
for  the  big  Quaker  rocker,  and  lugged  over  two 
old  conch  shells  and  put  them  on  the  little  mantel 

227 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

for  colour ; hideous  old  relics  I thought  at  first. 
But  I learned  the  utility  of  them  later,  when  my 
lamp  was  out,  and  I saw  them  reflecting  the  warmth 
of  the  fire  like  two  far-away  spots  of  sunset  at 
sea  with  a dusky  haze  over  them.  I suppose  the 
literal  Doctor  would  have  said  that  was  just  what 
they  had  been  storing  up  on  some  desolate  shore 
for  a thousand  years. 

When  everything  was  all  ship-shape,  and  the 
first  bleak  night  came,  I fastened  the  oaken  shut- 
ter, lit  the  student  lamp,  pulled  up  the  cushioned 
rocker  before  the  fire,  and  took  a comfortable 
survey  of  the  place.  Upon  my  word,  it  looked 
quite  cosey  and  inviting. 

In  all  this  I had  followed  the  Doctor’s  advice. 
Just  before  he  took  the  train,  he  put  his  hand  on 
my  shoulder  and  fired  his  parting  shot. 

“ Don’t  forget,”  he  said ; “ I’ve  got  a sort  of 
contract  to  pull  you  up  to  a hoary  eighty-five  — 
or  was  it  ninety-five  ? Don’t  frustrate  me.  I’m 
on  my  mettle  with  this  thing  now.  I shall  not 
live  to  see  it,  but  you  will  live  to  thank  me. 
When  men  suffer  from  too  much  light,  we  have  to 
put  them  in  a dark  room,  where  they  cannot  see 
what  is  going  on  or  read  medical  books.  You’ll 
come  out  like  a beaver  in  the  spring.  Write  as 
many  letters  as  you  please,  but  no  business  letters. 
Good-by.  Write  to  me  once  a week.  I can 
always  reach  you  in  four  hours.  But  you  will  not 
need  me  unless  ” — and  he  got  out  of  reach  before 
he  finished  the  sentence  — “ unless  you  want  me 
for  your  best  man.” 


228 


WOOD  FIRES 

I thought  of  this  on  that  first  November  night, 
with  the  wood  fire  burning  inside  and  the  wind 
soughing  outside.  The  yellow  dog  was  stretched 
out  limp  and  contented,  broadside  on  to  the  blaze  ; 
and  Charlie,  examining  the  books,  was  firing  ques- 
tions at  me  like  a Maxim  gun.  Was  not  this  the 
real  Robinson  Crusoe  thing  of  one’s  boyhood, 
once  unattainable  ? I was  not  skilled  in  self- 
analysis,  and  I tried  very  hard  to  find  out,  as  I 
stretched  out  my  legs  in  imitation  of  the  yellow 
dog,  what  the  charm  of  it  was  to  the  masculine 
brute.  Was  it  his  independence  of  his  fellows,  or 
only  the  desire  to  be  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed, 
and  get  away  from  the  “ church-going  bell  ? ” I 
had  a sneaking  suspicion,  which  I took  good  care 
that  the  yellow  dog  should  not  see,  that  at  the 
bottom  it  was  sheer  selfishness,  but  as  I said,  I 
was  not  skilled  in  this  unravelling,  and  so  I gave 
it  up.  One  assurance  was  much  more  definite.  I 
had  outwitted  sudden  death,  actually  pulled  out 
his  dart  and  thrown  it  back  at  him,  and  he  had 
slunk  away.  Was  this  an  illusion?  No,  the 
Doctor  was  right.  Life  was  not,  he  said,  an  ad- 
justment to  one’s  environment.  There  he  flew, 
in  his  usual  vigorous  manner,  in  the  face  of  Her- 
bert Spencer.  Life  was  a coordination  of  self. 
Adjust  your  own  triple  natures,  and  the  environ- 
ment will  adjust  itself.  I remember  that,  because 
I wrote  it  down  at  the  time  with  a grim  resolution 
to  understand  it  if  it  took  all  winter,  and  it  grew 
clearer  as  I went  on.  He  had  quoted  Marcus 
Aurelius  to  me.  cc  Life  was  the  wrestler’s,  not  the 

229 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

dancer’s,  art.  One  stripped  himself  of  superflui- 
ties, the  other  put  on  extra  skirts  and  ribbons. 
In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  health  was  abnegation, 
not  possession.  Men  could  bloat  themselves  with 
life,  and  it  wasn’t  comfortable.”  I had  put  that 
down,  too. 

Some  chill  things  come  out  of  the  dark  to 
warm  themselves  at  those  wood  fires,  and  if  they 
do  not  grow  ruddier,  they  are  at  least  clearer  in 
the  glow.  It  is  difficult  to  say  exactly  what  they 
are,  they  dance  and  flicker  so.  Sometimes  they 
point  filmy  monitory  fingers  at  you.  Sometimes 
they  stretch  themselves,  like  the  yellow  dog,  in 
slumbrous  indifference,  and  sometimes  they  make 
you  look  behind  into  the  darker  recesses  of  the 
room  to  see  if  some  one  did  not  come  in  on  tip- 
toe without  opening  the  door. 

A wood  fire  is  full  of  liquid  pigments,  fancy- 
fed,  and  it  has  wondrous  depths  and  recessions, 
like  the  sunset  itself.  Always  a beyond  in  its 
soft  turmoil  of  pictures,  as  if  fire  alone  opened 
the  gates  of  fantasy  as  it  opens  the  gate  of  victory, 
and  ghosts  slip  through. 

It  was  pleasant,  I thought,  to  see  the  little 
tongues  of  flame  try  to  imitate  Griselle  with 
melting  Hogarthian  curves  and  fluctuant  poses, 
throwing  lambent  halos,  and  dancing  over  beds 
of  roses  that  vanished  and  came  again  aggravat- 
ingly;  and  if  you  watched  long  enough,  sank  into 
still  gray  heaps  of  ashes  with  little  recurrent  throbs 
of  heat,  as  if  illusions  disliked  to  die  like  realities. 
Strange  what  fuel  the  reposeful  mind  will  heap 

230 


WOOD  FIRES 


upon  the  wood  fire,  and  how  the  greedy  flame  is 
sure  to  reduce  it  all  to  a gray  mass  ! But  while 
it  lasted,  Griselle  was  sure  to  dance  in  it  and  float 
over  it  with  line  and  colour,  evanescing  into  some 
beyond  with  a beckoning  incandescence,  just  be- 
cause the  insistent  fancy,  when  it  is  in  a yellow  dog’s 
condition  of  receptivity,  will  not  rest  at  ashes. 

Sometimes  during  these  vigils,  when  Charlie 
had  dropped  off  to  sleep,  and  I was  dreamily 
boring,  with  my  imagination,  into  the  voluptuous 
embers  for  a fleeting  phantasm,  there  would  come 
a rustle  behind  me,  as  if  something  had  lit  softly 
on  the  earth.  It  was  probably  a little  gust  that 
came  under  the  door  as  the  wind  shifted.  But  in 
the  dead  silence  it  was  like  the  folding  of  a wing. 
Once,  and  only  once,  the  yellow  dog  lifted  up 
her  head  sharply,  cocked  her  ears,  and  looked 
eagerly  into  the  shadows ; but  not  having  any 
imagination,  fell  into  a new  limpness  and  went  to 
sleep  again.  That  was  all;  and  yet,  do  you  know 
that  such  is  the  hypnotic  influence  of  a wood  fire 
and  unperturbed  solitude,  that  I could  not  quite 
divest  myself  of  the  absurd  notion  that  all  the 
ardent  fancies  that  had  gone  up  the  chimney  had 
spread  themselves  out  ethereally  and  telegraphed 
something  into  the  Beyond. 

These  traumerei  were  healthy  and  illuminative 
beside  the  dreams  that  I had  experienced  in  the 
city,  and  which  always  left  a waking  shudder. 
They  had  come  with  a tocsin  crash;  and  blanched 
faces,  stricken  with  sudden  terror,  went  swiftly 
by.  Always  a quick  panic  and  mighty  rushes 

231 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

from  impending  doom,  with  the  sudden  knell 
of  mankind  ringing  in  one’s  ears.  These  fata 
morgana , thrown  on  the  screen  of  the  sensorium 
in  the  dark,  were  always  woven  out  of  the  rush 
and  smash  of  the  day,  and  were  always  cut  off 
without  a beyond.  One  night  in  the  city  the 
bang  of  the  gong  sounded ; and  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  I was  marching  with  a million  felons  in 
midnight  darkness,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  — none 
of  us  knowing  where  we  were  going,  but  pushed 
on  in  steady  tramp  by  the  pressure  of  the  inex- 
tricable. I did  not  get  over  that  inscrutable 
dream  for  days.  I carried  it  about  in  my  con- 
sciousness like  a corpse.  When  I met  Griselle 
and  discovered  the  sunrise,  these  dreams  all  dis- 
appeared. The  Doctor  said  they  belonged  to 
the  pathognomy  of  Wall  Street. 

While  I was  musing  on  that  first  winter  night 
before  the  fire,  Charlie,  who  had  been  asleep,  I 
thought,  half  an  hour,  sat  up  in  bed  and  startled 
me  with  an  interrogative  : — 

“ Papa  ? ” 

“ Halloo,  Comrade ; I thought  you  were  fast 
asleep.  What  is  it  ? ” 

“ What  did  the  Doctor  mean  by  saying  he 
would  be  your  best  man  ? ” 

“Well,  upon  my  word,  my  boy;  have  you 
been  lying  there  thinking  about  that?” 

“ No  ; I was  asleep,  but  I woke  up.” 

“ What  made  you  wake  up  P ” 

“ Nothing;  I just  woke.  I guess  you  touched 


232 


WOOD  FIRES 


“No,  I didn’t.  You’ve  been  dreaming.  Don't 
bother  me  with  such  intricate  questions.” 

“ What’s  intricate,  papa  ? ” 

“ Knotty.” 

“ He  can’t  be  your  best  man,  can  he  ? ” 

I got  up  and  went  to  the  bedside  and  looked 
into  the  little  ingenuous  face,  upon  which  this 
problem  had  dropped  like  a film  of  frost. 

With  the  influence  of  the  wood  fire  still  upon 
me,  I thought,  as  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  I 
smoothed  the  hair  down  on  his  forehead,  that 
all  at  once  he  was  telephonic,  — to  be  talked 
through,  not  at. 

“ Charlie,  my  boy,”  I said,  cc  nobody  can  be 
my  best  man  but  you.  You  are  the  best  and 
only.  So  don’t  you  worry.” 

But  he  was  asleep.  He  had  delivered  his  mes- 
sage. 

I stood  there  and  listened  a moment,  as  if  I 
expected  to  hear  a halloo  at  the  other  end  of  an 
ethereal  wire.  The  little  round  clock  on  the 
shelf  ticked  audibly.  The  yellow  dog  had  heard 
Charlie’s  voice  and  given  two  or  three  responsive 
raps  with  her  tail,  and  then  gone  off  on  the  same 
dream  path  with  the  boy.  The  fire  spat  weakly. 
The  wooden  shutter  shivered  a little.  I was  stark 
alone.  I have  often  asked  myself  since  if  I was. 

But  that  wood  fire  must  have  danced  illumina- 
tively  through  my  mind  when  I was  asleep.  The 
last  things  I saw  were  the  two  conch-shells,  like 
dull,  pink  eyes  winking  at  me.  Then  that  fan- 
tasy of  the  telegraph  smoke  began  to  weave  itself 

233 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

newly  and  take  on  new  significances.  The  Doc- 
tor and  I stood  on  a high  mountain,  looking  at 
the  human  race.  He  had  dressed  himself  in  a 
Roman  toga.  He  wore  a wreath  around  his 
head  and  had  a copy  of  the  “ Bucolica”  under  his 
arm.  “ You  are  permitted,”  he  said,  cc  to  see  the 
whole  of  mankind.  Few  men  can  grasp  it  until 
the  scales  have  fallen  from  their  eyes.” 

They  were  running  about  in  all  directions  like 
frenzied  ants,  but  from  each  one  of  them  streamed 
a little  silver  thread,  that  like  a fine  ray  of  light 
went  tremulously  upward  and  was  lost  in  the  air. 
These  myriad  pencils  intermingled,  but  were  never 
confused.  “ What  does  it  all  mean  ? ” I asked. 

££  That  is  the  silver  cord  to  the  Beyond,”  he 
said.  “ Every  man  brings  it  with  him  and  is 
fastened  by  it.  You  will  see  it  brightest  over  the 
school-houses  and  the  nurseries.  Only  a few  men 
have  been  permitted  to  see  it  as  you  see  it,  and 
they  generally  mistook  it.  Wordsworth  called  it 
a c trailing  cloud/  Swedenborg  said  it  was  the 
umbilicus  of  the  Unseen.  Reichenbach  called  it 
odic  force.  It  is  only  the  chain  of  the  Eternal.” 
££  But  what  are  they  all  trying  to  do  with  it?  ” 

££  Get  rid  of  it,”  said  the  Doctor.  ££  It  ham- 
pers them.  What  they  want  is  freedom.” 

££  And  do  they  succeed  ? ” 

£C  Yes.  They  work  all  their  lives  to  sever  it, 
and  then  they  break  the  circuit  of  the  Beyond. 
But  they  are  free.  It’s  too  bad,  for  that  is  the 
only  means  by  which  the  Beyond  can  communi- 
cate with  them.” 


234 


WOOD  FIRES 


Curious  it  is  what  a psychic  effect  wood  fires 
have.  My  recollection  of  this  dream  was  rather 
pleasant.  I don’t  know  why,  but  somehow  it 
seemed  to  me,  as  I looked  at  Charlie  when  we 
sat  down  to  our  breakfast,  that  some  of  the  lines 
of  communication  were  still  open  to  me. 

I tried  to  interview  Charlie  on  his  dreams. 
“Try  and  recollect  what  you  dreamed  last  night 
and  tell  me.  Think  a moment  and  get  it 
straight.” 

“ Oh,  I know  what  I dreamed  about  without 
thinking,”  said  Charlie,  promptly. 

“Yes  — well,  tell  me  all  about  it.” 

“ I dreamed  that  I had  a new  sled  and  the 
name  was  painted  on  it  in  red  letters.” 

“ Yes  — and  what  was  the  name  ? ” 

“ Bully  Boy.” 

“Was  that  all?” 

“ No,  I dreamed  I had  a new  pair  of  fur 
mittens.” 

One  thing  seems  quite  plain  to  me  now,  and 
it  is  that  wood  fires  have  no  psychology  for  small 
boys. 


ra 


235 


m 


CHAPTER  XX 

HIGH  WINDS 

THE  Doctor  had  remarked  to  me  that  man, 
relieved  of  woman’s  influence,  always  rushes 
off  to  some  place  where  he  can  eat  with 
his  knife,  and  immediately  sends  out  pickets  to 
see  if  there  is  not  a place  a little  farther  on  where 
he  can  eat  with  his  fingers.  I meant  to  prove,  if 
possible,  that  this,  like  some  other  of  the  Doctor’s 
generalizations,  would  not  hold  water,  as  we  say. 
I had  been  for  five  months  just  a hundred  miles 
from  the  refined  restrictions,  and  none  of  the  baser 
habits  of  the  carnivora  had  made  themselves  ap- 
parent, so  far  as  I could  see.  Charlie  and  I were 
as  scrupulous  about  the  small  amenities  as  two 
dormice  could  well  be.  It  is  true  enough,  we 
had  to  play  the  part  of  scullery  maid  for  our- 
selves, and  come  flat-footed  down  to  washing  our 
own  dishes  and  shaking  out  our  own  tablecloth ; 
for  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Griselle  could 
walk  over  in  winter  weather  just  to  relieve  us  of 

236 


HIGH  WINDS 


these  menial  duties.  It  was  just  here  in  the  per- 
formance of  these  necessary  banalities  that  we 
grew  to  appreciate  her  extraordinary  superiority 
to  them,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I think  our  appre- 
ciation of  her  had  grown  to  that  point  where  we 
did  not  want  her  to  play  the  part  of  help. 

Speaking  for  myself,  it  was  interesting  to  observe 
how  my  consideration  for  her  had  outstripped  the 
facts  of  the  case,  and  how  entirely  oblivious  she 
was  of  the  growth  she  had  attained  in  my  imagina- 
tion. If  she  understood  clearly  that  I was  an 
invalid  knight  errant,  playing  at  rustication,  and 
was  to  be  humoured  accordingly  in  all  my  freaks 
of  isolation,  she  never  betrayed  it.  She  had 
placed  Charlie  and  me  under  obligations  by  the 
most  womanly  assistance,  but  I dared  not  assume 
that  she  would  not  have  done  the  same  for  any- 
body who  had  taken  the  cabin  and  proved  him- 
self a gentleman  and  a harmless  neighbour.  I had 
not  discovered  that  this  aggravating  Florentine 
rustic,  who  had  volunteered  as  our  handmaiden 
with  such  an  easy  grace  of  condescension,  dis- 
covered in  me  anything  out  of  the  usual  run  of 
her  experience.  There  was  an  impregnable  im- 
partiality in  her  kindness  that  baffled  egotism. 

But  now  that  our  housekeeping  had  lost  her 
supervision,  we  had  to  rely  on  our  moral  forti- 
tude, and  prove  to  ourselves  that  in  the  perform- 
ance of  a duty  we  were  not  to  depend  upon  the 
allurements.  It  was  a very  old  task.  We  were 
to  face  the  gray  days  without  sunshine ; that  was 
all.  And  the  sunshine  of  Griselle  was  something 

237 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

more  than  a mere  figure  of  speech.  It  was  a pene 
trative  and  pervasive  fact  that  had  gilded  the 
humilities  of  our  home,  just  as  I had  seen  the  sun- 
rise kindle  the  furrows  and  emblazon  the  drudgery 
of  the  fields.  Breakfast  in  a hovel  had  taken  on, 
when  she  was  there,  that  kind  of  sparkle  one 
meets  in  the  early  morning  before  the  dew  is 
gone.  She  simply  poured  herself  over  it.  A few 
magic  passes  in  the  little  kitchen,  some  kind  of 
sibylline  trolling  in  low  tones,  and  presto,  Indian 
meal  came  out  in  golden  chunks  and  was  cut  up 
by  the  alchemist  into  steaming  ingots,  and  we 
heaped  the  butter  on  it  and  silently  felt  that  it 
was  driving  the  shadows  out  of  us.  The  coffee 
was  never  so  yellow  when  we  tried  our  chemistry 
on  it.  It  would  not  exhale.  We  did  our  best  on 
those  mornings,  but  there  was  always  a little  dis- 
tress of  human  hurry  in  it,  and  we  ran  against 
each  other  and  dropped  things,  and  the  yellow 
dog,  distressed  at  the  confusion,  got  between  our 
legs,  and  I think  sometimes  we  kicked  at  her. 
When  we  arrived  at  the  vital  point  of  sitting  down 
and  taking  a long  breath  preparatory  to  eating,  it 
always  seemed  that  the  preparation  before  and  the 
rehabilitation  afterward  made  the  eating  a little 
overestimated.  But  when  Griselle  had  been  there, 
we  sat  breathless  and  saw  all  the  little  contempti- 
ble trivialities  of  domesticity  fall  into  line  like  so 
many  dwarf  courtiers,  and  results  danced  after  her 
like  so  many  notes  under  magic  fingers,  melting 
into  melody. 

Three,  four  days  went  by,  and  the  Robinson 
238 


HIGH  WINDS 


Crusoe  thing  was  beginning  to  fray  itself  at  the 
edges.  Charlie  and  the  yellow  dog,  having  no 
manful  pride  in  the  matter,  betrayed  their  depri- 
vation shamelessly.  Charlie  proposed  that  we 
walk  over  to  the  homestead,  he  would  like  to  see 
Griselle ; and  the  yellow  dog,  when  the  confusion 
was  greatest  in  the  mornings,  went  out  sometimes 
and  blew  her  clarion  toward  the  homestead  for 
help.  When  we  went  off  for  our  morning  walks, 
I explained  to  Charlie  that  we  had  started  the 
Robinson  Crusoe  thing  wrong  end  foremost,  and 
it  was  that  which  made  it  so  hard  to  rectify. 
“ What  a terrible  thing,”  I said,  “it  would  have 
been  for  Crusoe  if  he  had  found  a fairy  on  his 
island  who  made  everything  easy  for  him.” 

“ Why,  how  could  it  be  terrible  ? I should 
think,”  said  Charlie,  “ that  it  would  be  just 
scrum.” 

“ I mean  that  it  would  be  terrible  when  she 
went  away,  and  they  always  go  away,  Charlie, 
after  spoiling  us.  We  should  have  begun  without 
one  as  Crusoe  did,  and  depended  on  ourselves, 
and  worked  out  our  comfort  with  our  own  hands. 
That’s  the  way  brave  men  do.” 

“ Then  what’s  the  good  of  a woman,  anyhow?” 
asked  Charlie. 

“ Oh,  they  have  to  work  out  their  own  affairs 
on  their  own  islands,”  I said  vaguely  and  con- 
clusively. 

So  we  took  our  walks  away  from  the  Hotch- 
kiss place,  and  I did  my  best  to  make  the  abstract 
old  mistress  fill  the  void  that  the  concrete  maid 

239 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

had  evidently  left  in  the  affections  of  the  boy  and 
the  dog,  for  it  was  becoming  quite  plain  to  me 
that  children  and  animals  cannot  rise  to  the  moral 
plane  of  heroic  self-abnegation. 

Those  walks  in  the  sharp  November  mornings 
with  a child  were,  I dare  say,  disciplinary  as  well 
as  sensuous.  There  were  many  chaste  revealings 
in  the  frosty  gallery  of  the  season.  Nature  had 
passed  in  a few  weeks  from  a painter  to  a sculptor. 
Her  Fortuny  trees  were  changed  to  Thorvaldsen 
statues.  November  on  her  exhibition  days  scorns 
any  drapery  but  that  of  her  own  incense.  The 
white  flesh  of  the  maenad  birches  flashed,  marble- 
like, behind  the  solid  junipers.  I could  see  their 
beautiful  limbs  glistening  far  off  on  the  pedestals 
of  the  moss,  and  the  hills  themselves,  only  yester- 
day wrapped  in  Indian  dyes,  were  gray  and  naked. 
It  does  not  take  an  invalid  knight  errant  long  to 
see  that  November,  like  June,  is  driving  the  way- 
ward fancies  back  to  woman.  I do  not  wonder 
that  some  of  the  physicists  have  declared  that  the 
atoms  themselves  are  male  and  female.  If  ever 
the  amateur  worshipper  at  this  outdoor  shrine 
grows  restless  at  the  anthropomorphic  returns  of 
his  fancy  to  concrete  Dryads,  and  rushes  to  the 
poets  to  escape  from  the  earthly  gravitation  of 
his  impersonation,  he  will  plunge  into  a greater 
labyrinth  than  before,  for  the  poets  all  steer  their 
argosies  by  the  sex-magnet.  The  invincible  Flor- 
entine maid  sails  unperturbed  through  Tasso,  and 
Petrarch,  and  Dante,  just  as  she  sails  through 
H orace.  Whenever  you  can  get  Fiammetta  and 

240 


HIGH  WINDS 


Laura  and  Beatrice  out  of  the  transcript  or  stop 
the  cry  for  the  “ lost  Lenore,”  you  may  go  back 
to  the  Bassarids  of  the  birch  grove  and  feel  that 
you  are  androgynous. 

Pardon  this  tangent ; the  Doctor  had  only  been 
gone  a week,  and  I could  not  help  thinking  of 
that  great  actress’s  advice  to  an  inexperienced  and 
beautiful  human  crystal  that  had  come  to  her  with 
her  aspirations.  “How  shall  I create  something ? ” 
she  cried.  u Go  and  fall  in  love,”  said  the  actress. 
(I  believe  it  was  Cushman.)  Fancy  the  vestal 
astonishment  of  crystal  art  just  in  its  firsf  congeal- 
ment.  “And  would  you  give  that  advice  to  a 
man  if  he  had  come  to  you  ? ” 

“ No  ; men  are  always  in  love.” 

But  with  a boy  for  a companion,  one  has  Eros 
himself  along,  unsophisticated  perhaps  by  the 
Grecian  myth,  and  therefore  a delightful  protection 
from  the  seductive  ghosts  of  Nature,  and  one’s 
stream  of  tendency.  He  does  not  give  a passing 
thought  to  the  Bassarids.  He  is  trying  every 
film  of  ice  to  see  if  it  will  hold  him.  He  is  the 
real  chipmunk  amid  these  eerie  dangers.  Keep 
close  to  him  in  the  morning. 

Some  curiosity  to  know  if  Griselle  would  not 
come  over  as  a visitor,  now  that  she  did  not  have 
to  come  as  a handmaiden,  would  naturally  take 
possession  of  me.  I would  be  patient  and  see. 
She  had  professed  such  a deep  interest  in  Charlie 
that  she  would  certainly  walk  over  some  sunny 
morning  and  inquire  after  him. 

I kept  this  up  for  a week,  expecting  every  morn- 
241 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

ing  to  see  the  Florentine  vision  breaking  softly 
in  the  trees.  But  it  did  not.  I suspect  that  the 
yellow  dog,  supremely  indifferent  to  the  principle 
involved,  stole  off  regularly  and  had  interviews 
with  the  maid.  There  was  an  air  of  satisfaction 
and  placid  contentment  about  her  that  was  suspi- 
cious, and  I wondered  if  yellow  dogs  and  astral 
maids  had  a Volapiik  of  their  own.  I have  often 
thought  since  that  I must  write  to  Miss  Hapgood 
and  make  some  inquiries  about  this. 

However,  I enjoyed  the  situation  secretly.  Gri- 
selle  was  waiting  for  me  to  come  first,  and  I was 
determined  that  she  should  make  the  advance. 
There  was  a soft  chuckle  in  this,  because  it  seemed 
to  be  on  the  edge  of  flirtation,  in  spite  of  all  her 
splendid  indifference.  Ha,  ha  ! I said  to  myself 
— if  you  were  a truly  astral  maid,  you  would 
never  have  thought  of  hanging  fire  in  this  manner. 

When  it  began  to  look  as  if  my  unchivalrous 
determination  had  to  give  way,  there  was  a great 
hullabaloo  one  morning.  I believe  I had  put  on 
a white  apron  and  was  trying  to  do  some  kind  of 
housework,  when  Charlie  and  the  yellow  dog  and 
the  sun  all  broke  out  at  once.  My  recollection 
of  it  is  that  I kicked  the  wet  white  apron  in  a wad 
under  the  book-shelves,  and  galloped  about  to  get 
my  smoking-jacket  and  my  air  of  indifference  on, 
and  then  sauntered  out  with  a fine  carelessness  , 
and  there  she  was,  coming  down  the  woody  colon- 
nade, looking  very  trim  in  a new  warm  walking- 
suit,  swinging  a fragile  dress  umbrella  as  a 
walking-stick,  very  much  as  if  she  had  been  on 

242 


HIGH  WINDS 


Broadway,  the  yellow  dog  turning  the  occasion 
into  an  idiotic  Saturnalia,  giving  everything  away 
with  the  most  unpardonable  looseness  of  de- 
meanour. 

Griselle’s  eyes  sparkled.  The  blood  was  in  her 
cheeks.  She  was  extra  aerated  by  the  walk,  and 
she  really  outshone,  without  knowing  it,  all  the 
Fiammettas  and  Lauras  who  are  paged  and  in- 
dexed. One  or  two  degrees  more  of  animal  frank- 
ness, and  I would  have  danced  round  her  like  the 
yellow  dog.  I strangled  my  exuberance  and  said 
with  hospitable  dignity,  “Good  morning,  Miss 
Hotchkiss,  you  are  quite  a stranger — Charlie, 
behave  yourself.  Walk  inside,  please.” 

Once  inside  and  vis  a vis , we  got  out  our  foils. 
I sat  with  my  face  a little  averted,  for  I did  not 
care  to  give  her  the  advantage  of  knowing  that  I 
could  not  help  admiring  her  in  her  new  shape  as 
a visitor.  Besides,  Charlie  was  taking  irreverent 
liberties  with  her,  and  I did  not  intend  to  condone 
her  crafty  familiarity  with  him. 

“You  see  we  are  as  comfortable  as  mortals  can 
be  without  woman’s  society,”  I said.  “ Will  you 
take  your  hat  off  and  stay  awhile  ? Perhaps  you 
can  stop  to  dinner.  Charlie,  take  her  umbrella.” 
She  sat  there  like  a handsome  pincushion,  I 
thought,  for  me  to  stick  my  absurd  observations 
into,  and  instead  of  making  any  replies  let  me  run 
on  to  see  how  much  of  a fool  I could  make  of 
myself.  Nothing  in  the  world  can  be  more  ridic- 
ulous than  to  use  foils  with  a pincushion. 

“ I came  over,”  she  said,  “ to  bring  you  this 
243 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

letter.  It  came  last  night.  Mr.  Minnerly  brought 
it  up  with  the  empty  barrels.  I thought  it  might 
be  important.” 

As  she  leaned  over  to  give  me  the  letter,  which 
I saw  was  from  the  Doctor,  I wondered  if  it  was 
necessary  for  her  to  put  on  those  six-button  gloves 
and  that  exquisite  little  French  boot  to  bring  the 
letter  to  me.  But  she  went  on  quite  matter-of- 
fact  like,  “ A week  from  next  Thursday  is  Thanks- 
giving, and  Gabe  thought  maybe  you  would  like 
to  eat  dinner  at  the  house.” 

I was  about  to  thank  her,  when  I caught  that 
look  in  the  corner  of  her  eye.  I must  have  stared 
instead,  as  if  Shakspere’s  Beatrice  had  arrived. 
The  very  words  danced  before  my  eyes.  cc  I took 
no  more  pains  for  those  thanks  than  you  take 
pains  to  thank  me.  If  it  had  been  painful,  I 
would  not  have  come.” 

“ Gabe  thought  so,  did  he  P ” I said,  beating  a 
kind  of  mental  retreat.  cc  Well,  I guess  Charlie 
and  I will  rough  it  out  together  on  canned  turkey 
and  bottled  cranberries,  eh,  — Charlie  ? ” 

I began  to  think  I was  the  only  one  with  a foil, 
and  that  I was  brandishing  it  rather  absurdly. 
<c  Of  course,”  I said,  “ it  would  be  pleasanter  for 
you  if  you  had  some  company  on  Thanksgiving 
Day.”  She  must  have  read  underneath  my  man- 
ner that  it  only  needed  the  faintest  of  invitations 
for  me  to  rush  headlong  to  the  homestead,  but  I 
was  determined  not  to  go  without  it.  I was  master 
of  the  situation,  and  intended  to  be  as  obdurately 
cruel  as  the  circumstances  would  warrant. 

244 


HIGH  WINDS 


If  she  understood  this,  she  did  not  betray  it. 
ccWe  shall  not  be  without  company/’  she  said. 
<c  The  Doctor  is  sending  us  a young  gentleman 
boarder.” 

I got  up,  tore  open  the  Doctor’s  letter,  and 
read  it. 

u I am  sending  up  another  invalid  to  the  home- 
stead. I have  given  him  a letter  to  you.  He 
will  amuse  you,  and  perhaps  convince  you  that  a 
man  can  be  a bigger  d — fool  than  you  are,  with 
his  health,  and  that  ought  to  comfort  you.  He 
is  only  twenty-eight  or  thirty,  but  he  has  burst 
his  hoops  with  too  much  life.  Cultivate  him. 
He  will  serve  as  a guide-post.  He  is  good-look- 
ing, infernally  clever,  and  trying  to  be,  like  your- 
self, tardily  penitent.” 

I held  the  letter  in  my  hand  and  looked  at 
Griselle.  She  was  bent  over,  purring  against 
Charlie. 

“ Has  the  gentleman  from  the  city  arrived  ? ” 
cc  No.  He  is  coming  this  morning.” 
cc  I beg  your  pardon,”  I said,  cc  of  course  Gabe 
thought  it  would  be  awkward  for  him  on  Thanks- 
giving Day  not  to  have  a city  person  to  talk  to. 
I ought  to  have  been  more  considerate  of  Gabe.” 
“ I don’t  believe  Gabe  ever  thought  of  that,” 
said  Griselle,  “ and  I’m  sure  that  he  would  not  like 
to  interfere  with  your  and  Charlie’s  roughing  it.” 
She  said  this  with  a bland,  open  eye,  the  corner 
of  which  twinkled. 

“ Nevertheless,”  I said,  <cas  I am  under  obliga- 
tions to  Gabe,  and  he  sent  you  over  — ” 

245 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


“But  he  didn’t  send  me  over.  I thought  your 
letter  might  be  important.  Is  it  ? ” 

Here  the  twinkle  spread  all  over  her  eye. 

“Yes  — very  important,  quite  urgent,  Miss 
Hotchkiss,”  I said,  “ I will  go  over  immediately 
and  see  your  uncle.  Are  you  going  back  that 
way  ? ” 

All  she  said  was,  “ Oh,  dear,  is  it  as  important 
as  that  ? ” 

But  her  eye  discoursed,  and  as  I walked  over 
to  the  window,  she  added  : “ Perhaps  you  will  not 
feel  like  giving  thanks.  Some  people  don’t.” 

“ The  only  way  to  determine  that,”  I said,  “ is 
to  go  over  at  once.” 

It  was  one  of  those  clear,  crisp  November 
mornings  that  make  all  the  sluggish  corpuscles 
leap.  I could  feel  the  pressure  of  the  blood  in 
my  finger-tips.  Such  a morning  is  both  a sur- 
prise and  a suspense.  It  is  like  these  circum- 
stances in  life  which  come  with  a flashing  sharpness 
of  peril,  and  touch  all  the  senses  with  a new  appre- 
hension. We  see  clearly  for  a moment  through 
awakening  crises.  There  was  an  insistent  and 
uncertain  west  wind  blowing.  My  nerves  shrank 
a little  at  first,  as  if  there  were  peril  in  it.  But  it 
blew  all  that  out  of  me,  and  I presently  felt  that 
this  preluding  of  the  cold  was  another  revel. 
The  blasts  came  like  Gargantuan  gusts  of  laugh- 
ter, and  made  Griselle  hold  her  hat  on  with  both 
hands,  and  it  wrapped  her  frock  about  her  with  a 
satyr’s  rudeness  and  a sculptor’s  skill.  But  she 
only  laughed,  as  if  heaven  were  romping  with 

246 


HIGH  WINDS 


her ; and  I admired  with  unspeakable  wonder  the 
streaming  and  fluttering  arabesques  with  which 
she  answered  to  the  wind,  blow  for  blow,  grace 
against  rudeness,  converting  the  jolly  old  beast 
into  a willing  artist,  as  if  beauty  after  all  had  more 
resisting  power  than  strength.  The  fact  is,  beauty 
was  better  acquainted  with  the  marauder  than  I 
was.  Her  resiliency  gave  way  to  his  bluster, 
while  I planted  my  feet  wide  apart  and  braced 
myself  against  him,  making  him  howl  with  deri- 
sion at  my  Ajax  defiance.  It  was  a field-day  with 
the  elements,  and  they  were  playing  a lusty  game 
of  atmospheric  bowls,  in  which  the  robust  natures 
joined;  and  I have  to  confess  that  I for  the  first 
time  was  taught  so  to  regard  it  by  the  dog,  the 
boy,  and  the  maiden,  — each  one  of  them  coming 
into  the  wrestle  with  a responsive  exultation  that 
was  new  to  me. 

When  we  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill  where 
there  was  a fringe  of  leafless  timber,  we  stood 
awhile  to  see  an  entirely  new  sport  that  I had 
never  dreamed  of.  It  was  the  collie  winds  shep- 
herding the  dead  leaves.  Whew,  with  what  mad 
sportiveness  they  went  at  it ! Along  the  edge 
of  the  timber  the  whole  flock  had  been  herded  in 
an  enormous  bank,  and  there  they  leapt  and 
danced  with  restless  mischief,  in  an  invisible  pen, 
every  one  of  them  quivering  with  a desire  to 
escape,  and  the  dogs  of  the  air  baying  at  them 
with  shrill  delight,  and  racing  after  them  as  they 
broke  loose  and  went  streaming  out  like  a flight 
of  birds,  and  rising  in  riotous  swirls,  to  round  them 

247 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

all  up  and  land  them  back  again  pantingly  for  a 
fresh  dash. 

Into  this  charivari  the  dog  threw  herself  with 
what  to  us  was  reckless  spontaneity.  The  wind 
blew  her  sideways,  as  she  tried  to  obey  the  pack 
above,  bent  down  her  tiller,  so  that  she  could  not 
make  short  turns,  but  she  kept  pace  somehow 
with  the  cohorts,  sometimes  lost  entirely  to  view ; 
and  coming  back  along  the  home  stretch  to  dis- 
appear utterly  in  the  great  bank,  where  we  heard 
her  muffled  barking,  and  occasionally  saw  her 
tail  sticking  out  and  working  like  a semaphore. 
While  we  stood  there,  not  more  than  half  a 
score  of  the  million  leaves  got  away  into  utter 
freedom,  and  it  was  absurd  to  see  how  little 
they  knew  what  to  do  with  their  freedom  when 
they  obtained  it.  The  silly  things  tried  to  roost 
in  the  trees,  as  they  had  seen  the  birds  do, 
and  the  sullen  old  limbs  shook  them  off  and 
seemed  to  say  to  them,  “ Oh,  be  quiet ; when 
you  have  seen  as  much  of  this  as  I have,  you  will 
not  get  into  such  a twitter  over  it.”  I had  seen 
the  same  thing  among  human  beings  who  were  all 
rounded  up  the  same  way  by  invisible  forces  ; but, 
of  course,  it  did  not  occur  to  me  then  that  it 
would  have  made  a good  Addisonian  article  for 
the  Spectator. 

As  we  came  over  the  crest  into  the  wood,  the 
revel  went  on  above  us.  We  could  see  the  tops 
of  the  oaks  and  chestnuts  over  our  heads  bending 
and  swaying  and  writhing,  and  here  and  there  a 
stray  leaf  was  swirling  away  high  up  in  solitary 

248 


I WALKED  IN  ANOTHER  DIRECTION  AND  BAWLED  OUT  A STANZA  OF  “THE  BRAVE  OLD  OAK.” 


HIGH  WINDS 


freedom.  We  had  come  out  of  the  game  into 
gray  peace  with  “ sunny  spots  of  greenery,”  where 
the  moss  was  still  lush,  and  Griselle  sat  down  on 
the  root  of  a beech  tree,  and  smilingly  pretended 
to  adjust  the  awryness  of  Charlie’s  hair  and  apparel ; 
but  as  she  kept  him  in  front  of  her,  I suspected 
that  she  wished  to  adjust  herself,  so  I walked  in 
another  direction,  and  bawled  out  a stave  of 
“The  Brave  Old  Oak,”  one  of  Charlie’s  favourite 
songs,  while  he,  with  the  example  of  the  wind 
still  before  him,  tried  to  get  her  to  bowl  after  him 
as  if  he  were  a leaf. 

Give  any  man  of  my  age  trees  enough,  I care 
not  what  the  season  may  be,  and  in  half  an  hour 
he  will  create  a Rosalind  to  fit  them,  and  if  he  has 
a jack-knife,  he  will  carve  her  name  in  the  bark. 
I suppose  Nature  is  always  trying  to  be  Shak- 
sperian,  even  in  her  sly  moments ; certainly  it 
looks  like  it  to  a man  of  sensibility,  and  it  is  in 
her  interludes  that  she  approaches  nearest  to  her 
human  master.  Always  Shakspere  stepped  out 
of  the  gusts  of  human  passion  to  lilt.  You  feel 
his  muscles  relax  and  his  wing  unfold.  It  is  when 
his  muse  pushes  the  playwright  aside  and  touches 
the  strings  herself  that  you  listen  hushed.  The 
gusts  go  by  overhead,  and  he  stops  before  Dun- 
can’s castle  to  pay  a tribute  to  the  “ temple- 
haunting  martlet,”  or  drags  Hamlet  out  of  his 
whirlwind  to  the  window  to  eulogize  the  “brave 
o’erhanging  firmament.” 

De  Quincey  spent  a great  deal  of  analytic 
talent  upon  the  interruption  of  “the  knocking  at 

249 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


the  gate  ” in  Macbeth,  as  if  it  were  unique.  But 
there  is  not  a tragedy  of  Shakspere’s  in  which  the 
winds  do  not  hold  their  breath  while  he  taps  on 
the  windows  of  your  souL  These  little  interludes 
“ have  nothing  to  do  with  the  case  ” in  a dramatic 
sense.  They  are  the  divine  irrelevance  of  Na- 
ture herself  who  moves  by  surprises  and  not  by 
precedent. 

My  Daphne  would  not  have  been  so  vivid  if 
she  had  not  come  out  of  the  gusts.  She  sat  there 
against  the  grays  and  the  browns  of  the  despoiled 
wood,  making  an  interlude  that  must  have  gone 
racing  off  like  those  leaves  into  my  recollections 
forever.  With  the  Shaksperian  mood  upon  me, 
I felt  for  my  knife.  I would  carve  her  name  in 
the  tree.  What  prettier  entablature  of  the  event ! 
To  my  astonishment  the  tree  already  bore  scores 
of  names  when  I came  to  look  at  it.  Was  she 
then  the  actress  Rosalind,  who  sat  regularly  under 
this  tree  for  all  the  actors  who  came  along?  In  a 
twinkling  she  dispelled  that  doubt  by  saying, 
“Why,  it’s  a beech  tree,  and  men  come  under  it 
in  a thunderstorm  and  wait,  because  a beech  tree 
is  never  struck  by  lightning,  and  they  always  cut 
their  names  in  it,  I suppose.” 

These  November  winds  have  a large  winnow* 
ing  benignity.  They  come  with  their  brooms 
and  clean  house  bravely.  All  the  exhalations  of 
the  dead  summer  and  all  the  off-cast  clothing  of 
the  autumn  are  swept  away.  They  hunt  out  the 
miasma,  and  descend  like  the  Sabines  on  the  hid- 
ing fogs.  Away,  all  of  you,  begone  ! The  earth 

250 


HIGH  WINDS 


must  be  tidied  up.  They  stir  the  waters,  blowing 
oxygen  into  stagnant  lagoons,  turning  over  the 
tepid  ponds,  and  shouting  to  the  lazy  runlets,  if 
we  can  believe  Lanier,  — 

ee  Run  home,  little  streams. 

With  your  laps  full  of  stars 
And  of  dreams.” 

They  are  clarion  winds,  and  they  start  the 
trumpets  in  you,  if  you  have  any.  But  they  are 
not  only  frolicsome,  trumpeting,  housecleaning  — 
they  are  supervising,  regulating,  policing,  sanitary 
winds.  They  go  through  the  woods  with  mighty 
scalpels.  They  tap  on  the  oak  to  hear  if  the  heart 
is  sound.  They  cut  away  his  dead  branches  ruth- 
lessly, and  bring  down  the  bare  pinnacle  on  the 
elm  with  a crash ; they  hate  dry  superfluities ; 
they  try  every  trunk  and  inquire  about  its  roots ; 
they  skylark  like  Goths  with  the  young  poplars 
and  birches,  and  if  they  find  one  careless  and 
giddy,  with  little  underpinning,  ah  me,  they 
stretch  her  lengthwise  sprawling  and  go  galavant- 
ing  off  for  others. 

I wonder  if  some  of  those  earlier  confreres  of 
mine  who  were  wont  to  sit  about  the  Parisian 
Parnassus  in  lofty  garrets,  and  who  wrote  starry 
poems  about  Nature  in  the  late  and  reeking  hours 
amid  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke,  and  with  black 
coffee  for  the  muse  — or  perhaps  it  was  absinthe 
— I wonder  if  the  November  winds  would  not 
blow  the  celestial  fire  out  of  them  on  top  of  that 

251 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

crest.  I cannot  quite  think  that  their  flickering 
flame  would  survive  the  contact  with  Nature  in 
this  mood.  But,  mayhap,  it  would  be  the  other 
way,  and  blow  only  the  fetid  and  morbid  fancies 
out  of  them.  As  I am  not  equal  to  the  psychic 
problem,  I might  as  well  dismiss  it. 

This  thought  was,  however, an  odd  premonition; 
for  when  we  reached  Gabe  Hotchkiss’s  big  porch, 
a glowing  group,  there  was  the  new  guest  walking 
up  and  down  on  the  sheltered  side  in  a light  fall 
overcoat,  with  the  collar  turned  up.  He  appeared 
fragile,  pale,  and  pinched.  He  wore  a little  crush 
hat  and  a monocle,  and  the  hat  was  pulled  down 
over  his  head  to  keep  the  wind  from  blowing  it 
away.  His  hands  were  thrust  deep  in  the  side 
pockets  of  his  coat  to  keep  them  warm.  He  was 
obviously  blue  with  the  largeness  and  atmospheric 
looseness  of  the  place.  He  recalled  in  an  instant 
the  geniuses  I had  been  gloating  over.  I said  to 
myself,  with  prompt  resentment : ££  What  wind,  I 
wonder,  blew  him  hither.  He  must  have  the 
consumption.  Til  take  him  round  on  the  windy 
side  of  the  porch  and  buttonhole  him  there ; that 
will  finish  him.” 

After  we  had  exchanged  preliminaries,  and  he 
had  handed  me  the  Doctor’s  letter,  we  looked 
each  other  in  the  face  and  became  absurdly 
sententious. 

£C  Heart  disease  ? ” he  inquired. 

C£Yes;  and  you  — ” 

££  Hyperaemia  of  the  brain.  I thought  this  was 
a water  cure,” 


252 


HIGH  WINDS 


u No.  Air  cure.  Come  round  on  the  other 
side.” 

“ Who’s  the  young  lady  ? ” 

“ Hostess,  daughter,  maid.  Daphne,  — anything 
you  like.” 

cc  Not  at  all  bad  looking.” 
cc  Not  at  all,  for  a rustic.” 

cc  Understand  you  are  roughing  it  over  in  the 
woods.” 

“ Yes  — trying  to  get  all  there  is  out  of  it.” 

<c  How  much  have  you  got  ? ” 

“ Doctor  says  forty-five  years.” 

“ Good  Heavens,  you  don’t  expect  to  live  that 
long!  What  for?” 

“ To  get  all  there  is  out  of  it.” 

“ You  must  be  of  German  extraction.” 

“ Probably.” 

“ Perhaps  there’s  something  in  it  worth  getting 
out  that  I haven’t  heard  of.” 

“ Very  likely.” 

“ Picked  the  idea  up  in  the  woods,  perhaps  ? 
Let’s  get  out  of  this  infernal  wind.” 

“It  will  go  down  in  a minute.  Observe  the 
view.” 

“ Pardon  me.  You  observe  it.  I’ll  get  round 
where  there’s  less  of  it.” 

I saw  him  turn  the  corner  of  the  porch  as  if 
he  were  pushed  from  behind,  and  for  a moment 
he  reminded  me  of  the  yellow  dog.  But  I kept 
after  him  relentlessly.  He  sat  down  in  one  of  the 
heavy  rockers,  and  just  as  I was  expecting  to  see 
him  cough,  Griselie  appeared  with  a rug, 

253 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

“ You’ll  find  the  air  here  much  sharper  than  in 
the  city/'  she  said  to  the  young  man,  and  then 
actually  tucked  him  in  before  my  very  eyes.  I 
walked  away.  As  she  came  toward  me,  I said 
between  my  teeth  : “ What  did  you  do  that  for  ? 
He  would  have  had  the  pneumonia  in  another 
half  hour.” 

“ How  mean  you  can  pretend  to  be,”  she  said, 
“ and  there  isn’t  the  smallest  excuse  for  it,  as  you 
ought  to  know.” 

“ Isn’t  there  ? ” I gasped. 

But  she  had  given  herself  that  fringed-gentian 
twist,  that  I have  already  tried  to  describe,  and 
was  gone.  She  seemed  to  disappear  through  the 
kitchen  door  as  if  pursued  by  her  own  indiscretion. 

Sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  that  Griselle  blew 
through  one  like  those  winds,  and  set  all  the 
fancies  scurrying.  “No  excuse  for  being  mean,” 
I repeated.  But  being  Shaksperian  that  morning 
at  the  rate  of  thirty  miles  an  hour,  I must  reason 
like  Benedick,  “That  is  to  say,  you  are  jealous, 
and  need  not  be.” 

“ My  dear  fellow,”  I said  to  the  guest,  “ if  I 
were  you  I wouldn’t  expose  myself  to  this  wind 
unless  you  are  exercising.” 

“ Oh,  I like  it,”  he  remarked.  “ Don’t  let  me 
detain  you  if  you  are  chilly.  This  isn’t  a circum- 
stance to  the  North  Seas,  and  I’ve  often  sat  on 
deck  there  when  it  was  blowing  what  the  sailors 
call  great  guns.  It  presents  the  happy  illusion 
of  something  going  on.” 

“ I cannot  imagine  why  the  Doctor  should 
254 


HIGH  WINDS 


select  such  a place  as  this  for  hyperaemia,”  I re- 
marked. “To  a man  accustomed  to  the  intensi- 
ties, that  is,  the  activities  of  life,  it  must  wear 
some  of  the  aspects  of  death.” 

“ I think/’  he  replied,  “ that  the  Doctor  referred 
to  you  as  a remarkable  example  of  the  revivifying 
effects,  and  I was  to  follow  in  your  footsteps.” 
“How  fantastic!  Mine  was  a case  of  heart; 
yours  is  a case  of  head.  Imagine  if  you  can  the 
head  following  in  the  footsteps  of  the  heart  in  our 
days.  The  Doctor  must  have  relapsed  into  the 
Middle  Ages.” 

“ Not  at  all.  I suppose  the  modern  practice 
follows  Nature  and  tries  to  divert  a disease  from 
one  overworked  organ  to  another  that  is  not  over- 
worked, in  which  case  the  Doctor  may  have  meant 
to  relieve  my  brain  by  affecting  my  heart.  In 
your  case,  the  process  may  have  been  reversed, 
and  in  order  to  relieve  your  heart  he  may  have 
affected  your  brain.” 

That  was  my  introduction  to  the  clever  young 
guest.  There  was  some  danger  of  my  getting  to 
like  him  after  all,  for  he  was  not  such  a dead  calm 
as  he  looked. 


255 


CHAPTER  XXI 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

THERE  are  some  laggard  days  in  November 
that  have  been  left  behind  by  the  autumnal 
procession.  They  are  wayward,  dilatory, 
irrelevant  days,  and  come  in  the  rear  of  the  re- 
treating season,  like  indolent  nymphs  that,  dressed 
for  the  nuptials,  only  arrived  for  the  funeral,  and 
could  not  abandon  their  voluptuous  moods.  They 
wear  their  bridal  veils,  and  look  at  us  reminiscently 
through  clouds  of  mist.  These  beautiful,  dreamy 
days  appear  to  have  been  thrown  off  somewhere 
like  fragments  by  the  revolving  August,  and  they 
come  along  like  the  Leonids,  and  as  softly  disap- 
pear. We  call  them  the  Indian  summer. 

Sometimes,  when  there  is  a group  of  them  hand 
in  hand,  they  re-create  for  us  in  a brief  way  and 
vaporously  the  delights  of  the  early  fall,  as  if  the 
atmosphere  had  a memory  and  could,  like  our- 
selves, summon  lost  hours.  They  blow  zephyr- 
ously  from  the  west  and  south ; bring  masquerading 

256 


INDIAN  SUMMER 


showers,  amateurish,  with  mimetic  flashes  and  imi- 
tative peals,  that  remind  you  of  the  children  play- 
ing at  Shaksperian  declamation. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  how  these  calendar 
sirens  beguile  animate  and  inanimate  things,  here 
and  there.  Always  there  will  be  a robin  or  two  that 
make  their  appearance,  and  try  to  get  up  a nidify- 
ing twitter.  They  are  the  unconventional  fellows 
that  probably  laughed  to  scorn  the  absurd  migratory 
instincts  of  the  common  flock,  and  rejected  all  the 
worn-out  traditions  of  winter  and  the  illusions  of 
another  and  warmer  clime.  Fine,  rationalistic 
birds  these,  that  are  not  moved  by  vague  intui- 
tions, but  wait  for  the  evidence  of  the  senses,  and 
a great  deal  of  exultant,  self-satisfied  peeping  and 
<c  chortling  ” they  do  when  this  mirage  of  the 
Indian  summer  hangs  in  the  air. 

There  are  similarly  disposed  peach  and  apple 
trees  scattered  about,  that  show  independence  of 
tradition  in  their  own  way.  They  break  out  in 
blossom  in  November,  and  do  their  best  to  load 
the  air  with  a spring  perfume.  They  probably 
think  (there  is  no  other  word  but  “ think  ” for  me 
to  use  when  speaking  of  a tree’s  volitions)  that 
the  curious  observers  are  admiring  their  indepen- 
dence, and  never  for  a moment  suspect  that  those 
observers  are  regarding  them  as  C£ freaks.”  Charlie 
says  he  saw  a woodchuck  sitting  on  his  haunches 
under  an  apple  tree,  with  a winter  apple  in  his 
paws,  eating  it,  kangaroo  fashion,  in  this  sympa- 
thetic sunshine,  instead  of  attending  to  his  ordained 
hibernating  business  ; and  as  I sat  at  my  table,  the 

257 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

warm  ray  stirred  some  flies  and  wasps  out  of  ob- 
scurity into  crawling  and  buzzing  impertinence. 

For  all  I know.  Nature  may  be  a humourist 
and  have  her  Mark  Twain  moods.  I dislike, 
however,  to  think  of  her  as  a practical  joker.  It 
invites  the  suspicion  that  one  has  been  reading 
Heine,  and  taken  him  seriously.  And  yet,  when 
Nature  wrung  the  neck  of  the  robin  she  had  be- 
guiled, and  ravaged  the  peach  tree  ruthlessly,  scat- 
tering its  confident  blossoms  and  freezing  its 
misplaced  sap  with  sardonic  sport,  I thought  I 
detected  an  Aristophanic  laugh. 

Nature,  I am  forced  to  confess,  is  no  laughing 
matter  to  the  man  who  dares  to  consider.  (To 
considerate  is  to  look  to  the  stars.  To  desiderate 
is  to  want  the  earth.)  I have  a haunting  recollec- 
tion that  Goethe  somewhere  says  that  the  severity 
of  Nature  is  an  exact  counterpart  of  the  severity 
of  the  Jewish  Jehovah.  But,  whether  he  meant 
that  the  Jews  got  their  God  out  of  the  terrors  of 
the  universe,  or  meant  only  that  physical  facts 
corroborate  what  the  Jews  held  to  be  revelation  — 
I do  not  at  this  moment  know.  But  this  I know. 
It  will  not  do  to  come  to  the  measurement  of  the 
great  scheme  with  one's  sensibilities  only.  There 
are  some  vast  chasms  in  the  universe,  for  which 
our  nerves  have  no  plummets.  They  swim  with 
ignes  fatui  that  oppress  a Heine,  but  that,  to  the 
brave  vision  of  a Martineau  or  a Pressense,  open 
like  the  milky  way,  and  disclose  worlds. 

As  a rule,  a man  does  not  look  askance  at  his 
sensibilities  till  he  passes  his  fortieth  year,  and  then 

258 


INDIAN  SUMMER 


he  begins  to  perceive  that  he  has  Indian  summers 
in  his  bones,  and  does  not  quite  know  if  he  at 
times  be  not  separated  from  his  season.  These 
lassitudes  of  maturity,  when  a man  parts  his  hair 
in  the  middle,  but  exposes  the  frost  on  his  temples, 
and  mistakes  the  harking  back  of  the  senses  for  a 
new  season,  are  his  Indian  summers.  He  ought 
to  be  very  wary  of  them.  His  imagination  is  very 
apt  to  break  out  in  blossom,  and  his  recollections 
twitter  and  peep,  as  if  winter  were  a myth  or  a 
mere  creed.  You  see  that  intimacy  with  outdoors 
has  its  introspections  and  suspicions.  Even  a 
hysterical  peach  tree  sets  you  pondering.  Given 
a few  pulses  of  the  convalescence  that  abides  in 
the  external  world,  and  I do  not  see  how  a man  in 
a hut  can  help  becoming  more  or  less  of  a Thoreau 
or  a Montaigne  — not  that  they  are  at  all  alike, 
for  dear  old  Montaigne  always  reminds  me  of  a 
large  cup  of  English  breakfast  tea,  in  which  milk 
and  water  make  copiousness  take  the  hue  of 
stimulation. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  the  amber  day,  calling 
with  an  imitative  croon,  very  much  like  a dowager 
trying  a lullaby.  One  must  dance  like  a cobra  to 
these  zithers,  whether  he  will  or  not.  Charlie  and 
I set  out  for  one  of  those  indeterminable  rambles 
which  were  always  deliciously  like  reading  Henry 
James,  for  they  led  nowhere,  but  enticed  us  with 
the  suave  glory  of  going. 

The  atmosphere  was  like  a great  piece  of  copal, 
its  brilliancy  slightly  thickened  to  a slumberous 
translucence ; that  kind  of  voluptuousness  that 

259 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


you  have  felt  but  not  seen  in  Stamboul  coming 
through  aggravating  veils.  The  air  was  like  chil- 
dren’s kisses  and  as  sweetly  cogent  as  a mother’s 
prayer  is  to  an  infant  that  does  not  understand 
one  word  of  it.  There  was  a tantalizing  humid 
balm  in  it  that  suggested  rainbows.  Some  invo- 
lutions of  smoke  over  distant  fields,  where  the 
brush  was  burning,  refused  to  leave  the  earth  and 
hung  in  vaporous  flirtation  about  the  figurante 
hills.  A few  far-off  crows,  low  down,  swam  like 
motes  in  our  eyes,  and  where  the  western  horizon 
rounded  itself  in  a curved  sky-line  against  a 
specially  deep  gap  of  distance,  there  was  a re- 
flected light  as  if  from  a hidden  sea.  I felt  sure 
the  waves  were  curling  there  on  sandy  beaches, 
and  be  hanged  to  the  geography.  I said  to 
myself : — 

“ Though  inland  far  we  be. 

Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea.*’ 

Immediately,  Heine  somewhere  in  me  whis- 
pered that  Wordsworth  was  sure  to  come  across 
the  disk  of  one’s  mood  at  such  times,  like  these 
crows.  An  assertion  that  somebody  else  in  me  — 
who  it  was  I do  not  know  — promptly  resented, 
because  the  crows  do  not  fly  high  enough  — 

ft  To  see  the  children  sporting  on  the  shore 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore.” 

Charlie  broke  in  on  this  reflection  with  his 
usual  irrelevancy.  “ It  is  just  like  Sunday,” 

260 


INDIAN  SUMMER 


he  said.  I called  his  attention  to  the  tinkle  of 
the  blacksmith’s  anvil  in  the  far-away  village. 
It  came  on  the  pulses  of  the  south  wind,  an 
infinitesimal  point  of  sound,  rhythmic  and  elfin- 
like.  “The  world  is  hard  at  it,  my  boy,”  I re- 
plied, “ but  it  is  Sunday  with  outdoors.  I guess 
the  sky  is  at  its  prayers.”  That  seemed  to  him 
to  have  an  element  of  exaggeration  rather  than 
of  poetry  in  it,  for  he  took  on  an  incredulous 
smile  and  said,  “ Oh,  I don’t  believe  the  sky  has 
to  pray  like  we  do.”  And  standing  corrected, 
what  could  I do  but  say  : “ Right  you  are,  Com- 
rade, it  doesn’t  have  to — That’s  just  it.” 

I wondered  to  myself  how  it  would  do  to  have 
Charlie  annotate  Heine  for  private  use.  What 
jolly  footnotes,  with  dispelling  laughs  in  them, 
and  jocund  but  shattering  shouts  of  young  faith. 
Such  an  edition  of  Heine,  you  will  say,  would 
remind  you  of  the  old  tombs  that  were  garnished 
with  meaningless  cherubs.  But  why  not  say, 
rather,  the  old  tombs  that  had  Rosicrucian  tapers 
set  round  them,  that  did  not  go  out  ? 

The  hours  on  such  mornings  are  noiseless. 
The  unctuous  sunshine  seems  to  lubricate  time 
itself,  and  the  diurnal  machinery  makes  no  sound. 
The  ongoing  nymphs  are  softly  sandalled.  Now 
and  then  one  trips  in  the  dead  leaves,  and  you 
hear  a sly  stir,  as  if  she  had  swept  her  drapery 
up,  but  you  see  nothing,  and  if  you  listen  for  a 
footfall  — only  the  low  breathing  of  the  drowsy 
earth  and  a cricket  here  and  there  ticking  the 
transitions. 


261 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

Neither  the  boy  nor  the  yellow  dog  could 
understand  why  I should  sit  down  and  moon 
over  this.  One  of  them  had  a neighbouring 
butternut  tree  in  his  eye,  and  could  not  for  the 
life  of  him  see  why  we  should  stop  and  keep  still, 
when  one  could  throw  sticks  and  stones  into  the 
trees  at  the  crows’  nests,  and  run  his  hands  dili- 
gently under  the  dead  leaves  for  the  butternuts. 
The  other  member  of  the  group  stood  with  her 
tail  slightly  curled  and  vibratory  with  expectation, 
and  one  paw  held  up  tentatively,  as  if  this  idle 
suspense  could  not  last  much  longer.  Both  of 
them  had  more  resisting  power  than  I had.  At 
all  events,  they  were  not  burdened  with  simili- 
tudes, and  as  a consequence  could  radiate  the 
influences  instead  of  absorbing  them  as  I did, 
and  rolling  them  over  under  my  tongue.  To 
them  the  conditions  were  sufficient  unto  them- 
selves. To  me  they  were  inadequate,  like  a 
wandering  melody  that  does  not  reach  the  key- 
note. Then  it  was  that  Griselle  appeared,  com- 
ing over  the  rustic  field,  glinting  between  the 
cedars,  now  lost  behind  the  clumps,  and  now 
fluttering  out  nearer  on,  her  courier  gladness 
coming  ahead  of  her,  and  waking  yaps  and 
yahoos  and  giving  even  me  a rising  pulse. 
Charlie  and  the  dog  took  it  as  part  of  the 
morning’s  happenings,  while  I,  miserable  culprit 
that  I am,  knew  that  she  would  come  that  way. 

Some  years  have  gone  by  since  that  Indian 
summer  morning,  but  I am  unable  to  say,  after 
all  that  has  intervened,  that  I should  have  been 

262 


INDIAN  SUMMER 


ashamed  of  myself.  You  see  that  the  man  trained 
to  study,  and  if  possible  to  “ do,”  the  other  fel- 
low, is  baffled  when  he  comes  to  take  a hand  at 
doing  himself.  The  other  fellow  presents  the 
advantage  of  always  being  in  the  singular,  whereas 
there  are  two  or  three  of  yourselves  that  take  you 
in  relays.  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I do  not  know 
that  there  was  any  moral  aspect  of  the  case  pre- 
sented to  the  group  of  me.  I probably  ambled 
collectively  very  much  like  the  yellow  dog.  As 
I bring  back  the  circumstances  in  all  their  dreamy 
cajolement,  I appear  to  have  given  way  to  the 
evanescent  enchantment  more  like  an  instinctive 
goat  than  a composite  and  calculating  fellow.  To 
be  able  to  feel  again  at  forty-four  that  elation  of 
the  senses  which  belongs  to  youth ; to  believe 
once  more  that  everything  comes  your  way  be- 
cause you  want  it,  and  to  spin  all  the  realities 
that  swim  before  you  into  ideal  tissues,  — this  is 
to  become  intoxicated  with  one’s  own  blood,  and 
once  you  begin  to  reel  with  that  old  ichor  of  the 
gods,  you  no  longer  are  able  to  see  that  you  are 
in  one  world,  and  the  deceptive  circumstances  in 
another. 

The  boy  and  the  dog  ran  to  meet  Griselle  as 
if  even  they  had  an  intuition  that  she  completed 
the  tune  that  the  morning  was  trying  to  sing,  and 
they  danced  round  her  with  what,  centuries  ago, 
was  called  a “ glad  noise.”  She  stood  a moment 
with  her  dress  lifted  and  her  head  up,  accepting 
the  fantastic  homage  as  a matter  of  course,  but 
trying  to  look  astonished  that  she  should  have 

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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

encountered  us.  Where  she  was  going,  or  why 
she  should  be  going  at  that  particular  hour,  1 
do  not  to  this  day  know.  When  these  things 
are  arranged  for  us  by  a benign  morning,  why 
ask  questions  ? My  impression  at  the  time  was 
that  the  hour  could  no  more  help  flowering  into 
Griselle  than  a turn  of  the  earth  can  help  bringing 
the  sunrise  ; and  after  that,  anything  was  possible. 
If  the  birches  tried  to  make  triumphal  arches  for 
her  as  she  passed  under,  and  the  dotard  oaks 
pulled  the  few  leaves  they  had  left  over  their  bald 
heads  as  she  leaned  against  their  trunks,  it  was 
all  as  probable  and  natural  as  anything  can  be  in 
a dream.  I was  not  even  surprised  when,  as  she 
was  looking  for  sweet-flag  along  the  edge  of  a 
marsh,  the  vapours,  in  league  with  the  sun,  tried 
to  make  halos  and  spin  them  round  her  jaunty 
Scotch  cap.  I accepted  the  girl  implicitly  as  part 
of  the  mise  en  scene , but  as  one  in  dreams  often 
has  a lurking  suspicion  that  it  is  a dream,  I found 
myself  at  times  saying,  “ Go  slow,  old  fellow,  you 
are  under  a spell.”  It  would  have  astonished 
her,  I dare  say,  if  she  could  by  some  necromancy 
have  seen  the  several  of  me  whispering  and  con- 
sulting and  comparing  notes,  like  the  conspirators 
in  a comic  opera.  I said,  £C  Easy,  easy,  my 
friend  ” (fancy  one  calling  himself  his  friend  ; this 
is  the  meridian  of  moon  madness),  £C  she  is  only  a 
comely  rustic ; you  are  spending  a fortune  of  fan- 
cies on  her.  If  you  cannot  be  reasonable,  at  least 
be  economical.”  But  such  bleak  considerations 
fell  like  the  butternuts  and  were  lost  in  the  leaves. 

264 


INDIAN  SUMMER 


There  was  an  echo  somewhere  in  the  woods, 
and  we  rang  all  the  changes  on  it.  I shouted 
“ Griselle  ” at  the  top  of  my  voice,  to  hear  the 
taunt  come  back  “sell,  sell.,,  But  even  that 
monitory  sibyl  did  not  move  me.  Wrought  upon 
by  the  Indian  incantation,  I refused  to  reflect 
and  only  exulted. 

It  must  be  a very  white  magic  that  can  so 
whelm  a man  and  make  the  various  trivialities  of 
a day’s  vagabondage  take  on  such  hues  and  melt 
so  sunningly  into  illusions.  I called  her  Griselle 
with  an  easy  zest,  as  if  my  mouth  were  a new 
beaker,  and  the  word  had  new  bubbles  on  its 
brim.  It  is  interesting  to  watch  a young  tender- 
ness begin  to  walk,  especially  if  it  has  been  creep- 
ing around  for  months  in  the  dark. 

She  came  and  sat  down  beside  me,  flushing 
and  radiant,  on  a buttonball  trunk  that  the  light- 
ning had  felled  during  the  summer,  and  the  wounds 
of  which  had  been  covered  by  a Samaritan  creeper. 
She  was  not  a foot  away  from  me.  I had  felt  her 
fan  the  warm  odorous  air,  loaded  with  the  burnt 
incense  of  the  leaves,  as  she  came  toward  me,  and 
yet  I was  suddenly  conscious  of  some  kind  of 
chasm  between  us  that  no  words  I could  think 
of  would  bridge.  In  the  first  place,  these  lan- 
guorous episodes  have  no  vocabulary  — only 
barks,  and  yaps,  and  peeps.  I think  the  Indian 
summer  would  have  us  sit  mute  and  breathe  hard. 
It  certainly  does  its  best,  when  you  pass  the  ves- 
tibule, to  inebriate  you  with  strange  distillations. 
I have  tasted  the  calamus  across  several  years. 

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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

“ It  is  a beautiful  and  dreamy  day,”  I said 
platitudinously  enough.  “ But  it  cannot  be  half 
so  beautiful  to  you,  who  are  familiar  with  Nature, 
as  to  me.  I have  been  in  a sort  of  Oriental  swoon 
ever  since  I came  out.” 

“It’s  a weather-breeder,  according  to  Uncle 
Gabe,”  said  Daphne,  with  her  two  hands  at  the 
back  of  her  hair. 

“ It  reminds  me  of  a day  I spent  at  Capri,  and 
ate  raspberries  and  white  figs,  and  drank  wine 
that  smelled  of  violets.  It  is  a magical  isle  ; one 
can  never  get  it  out  of  his  memory.” 

“And  this  Indian  summer  reminds  you  of  it, 
you  say  ? ” 

“ Why,  yes.  I met  a beautiful  woman  there.” 

“ And  she  died,  didn’t  she  ? ” 

“No  — she’s  alive  yet.  I met  her  in  my 
fancy.” 

“ Oh.  Gabe  says  there’s  a nor’easter  coming  to 
fill  up  the  ponds.  I guess  this  is  the  last  of  the 
pleasant  days.” 

“ I hope  not,”  I said.  “ Only  the  last  of  the 
Indian  summer.  After  all,  the  weather  has  very 
little  to  do  with  one’s  feelings.” 

And  then  there  came  a soft  sigh  from  the  marsh, 
with  the  floss  of  the  cattails  spinning  in  it,  and  it 
seemed  to  say  to  me,  reproachfully,  “ What  a liar 
you  are.” 


266 


CHAPTER  XXII 

TRAILING  JUNIPER 

WHATEVER  may  be  the  case  with  youth, 
I am  satisfied  in  my  own  mind  that  the 
mature  man  does  not  “ fall  in  love.” 
You  might  as  well  speak  of  falling  in  gambling 
or  in  gluttony.  He  glides  in  with  both  feet  over 
a long  grade  — whether  it  is  up  or  down,  you 
shall  say.  Very  absurd  it  is  to  a man  of  large 
experience  to  speak  of  love  as  a precipice  over 
which  he  is  liable  to  tumble  inadvertently  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  with  all  respect  to  the 
Montagues  and  Capulets  whose  cc  ill-advised  af- 
fair ” had  to  conform  with  precipitancy  to  the  three 
hours’  limitation  of  the  stage,  I think  the  ordi- 
nary man  of  the  world  wades  in  with  much  lin- 
gering deliberation,  and  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten 
doesn’t  know  that  he  is  in  until  he  is  up  to  his 
ears. 

There  would  be  no  excuse  for  my  dwelling  upon 
it  if  the  experience  had  not  been,  so  far  as  I could 

267 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

judge,  a part  of  the  change  which  the  Doctor 
called  “ renewing  one’s  infancy,”  and  which  was 
attributable  to  my  life  for  several  months  in  the 
wilderness.  I shall  therefore  be  pardoned,  I hope, 
for  telling  of  my  slipping  into  a condition  of 
amorous  sentimentality  when  I insist  that  it  was 
altogether  the  result  of  a cleared  vision.  Unques- 
tionably, I saw  some  things  which  I had  never 
seen  before,  or  if  I had  seen  them,  they  were  so 
indistinct  that  I gave  no  heed  to  them,  and  this 
consciousness  of  a rectified  vision  needs  some 
explanation. 

When  I was  a lad  I had  a grandmother,  one  of 
those  dear,  lovable  old  women  of  another  epoch, 
who  managed  to  make  some  deep  impressions  upon 
ductile  minds,  that  were  never  outgrown,  and 
which  were  very  often  impressions  that  should  not 
have  been  made.  One  of  her  favourite  phrases 
directed  to  me  when  my  boy’s  heedlessness  became 
very  obvious  was,  “ Ah,  my  boy,  the  scales  will 
fall  from  your  eyes  some  day.”  I was  accustomed 
to  hear  that  admonitory  speech  from  the  nursery 
to  the  school  days.  It  was  always  said  with  a 
tender  finality  that  barred  all  further  speech.  It 
bothered  me  a good  deal,  as  I began  to  think. 
The  only  scales  that  my  limited  experience  had 
made  me  acquainted  with  were  fish-scales,  and  I 
could  not,  do  my  best,  adjust  the  metaphor,  if  it 
was  one,  to  the  physical  facts.  I often  wondered 
in  my  crib  if  men  had  invisible  fish-scales  growing 
over  their  eyes,  which  at  some  crisis  dropped  off*. 
Then,  as  I grew  older,  and  read  the  phrase  in  the 

268 


TRAILING  JUNIPER 

Bible,  so  explicitly  given,  cc  There  fell  from  his 
eyes,  as  it  had  been,  scales,”  instead  of  its  being  a 
strong  Oriental  way  of  stating  a mental  change,  it 
took  hold  of  me  as  a mysterious  supernatural  and 
physical  occurrence,  that  was  specially  awful,  and 
to  my  youthful  mind  specially  cruel.  In  the  first 
questioning  stages  of  my  growth,  I wanted  to 
know  why  a man  should  be  blind  so  that  he  could 
not  see  the  error  of  his  way  until  he  had  traversed 
a long  route.  This  after-problem  bothered  me 
for  years  in  a metaphysical  way,  as  the  earlier  prob- 
lem had  bothered  me  with  its  physics.  But  as  I 
went  out  into  the  world  with  a lively  retina  that 
had  all  it  could  do  to  register  the  impressions  that 
crowded  upon  it,  I passed  the  puzzle  over  to  a 
spiritual  domain,  as  not  being  exigent  or  explica- 
ble on  business  principles.  Still,  as  I have  said, 
these  early  impressions,  once  made,  pop  up  unex- 
pectedly at  odd  times  all  through  a man’s  life,  as 
he  encounters  new  experiences  and  learns  sooner 
or  later  that  his  vision  varies  with  his  conditions 
and  moods. 

These  quick  and  passing  perceptions  of  an 
equable  truth,  lying  just  beyond  our  ordinary 
range  of  vision,  are  little  apocalyptic  glimpses  that 
come  to  all  men  at  times  in  varying  degrees  of 
vividness,  so  that  I am  not  assuming  any  special 
faculty.  It  is  as  if  a veil  parts,  and  the  eternal 
real  is  lying  there  with  a strangely  familiar  majesty 
and  calm.  One  could  almost  say  that  at  such 
times  our  cognitions  smite,  or  at  least  that  we  only 
come  to  the  apprehension  of  the  truth  per  saltum , 

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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

and  without  volition,  paradoxical  as  that  may 
sound. 

When  the  spiteful  and  spitting  snow  gusts  came, 
and  an  incisive  northeast  chilliness  presaged  Christ- 
mas glows,  I sat  before  my  log  fire  wondering 
again  if  the  scales  had  fallen  from  my  eyes.  In 
the  elf  light  of  my  wood  blaze,  with  a great  black 
tea-kettle  on  our  crane,  singing  and  tinkling  its 
lid,  I could  almost  fancy  that  my  old  grandmother 
was  somewhere  near,  smoothing  down  her  apron 
and  saying, “Yes,  I told  you  the  scales  would  fall 
from  your  eyes  some  day.” 

Unquestionably  I was  looking  at  things  — and 
not  only  things,  but  thoughts  — with  a simpler 
vision.  Most  of  the  disturbing  elements  of  my 
life  had  been  left  behind.  The  emotions,  as  dis- 
tinct from  the  feelings,  were  less  insurgent,  and 
did  not  ruffle  my  judgment  so  obstreperously.  I 
looked  out  at  the  first  snow  with  a reflective  equa- 
nimity. It  was,  in  a sense,  a hysterical  preludium 
of  winter,  as  if  the  ’prentice  season  were  flirting 
with  us,  giving  us  fierce  dashes  of  flakes  that 
drove  with  a blinding  bravado,  and  then  vanished 
weakly.  Some  kind  of  over-effort  to  snow,  and 
not  quite  able  to  accomplish  it,  very  characteristic, 
Gabe  said,  of  the  modern  winters,  that  lack  the 
gravity  and  steady,  business-like  effectiveness  of 
the  old-fashioned  whelming  snow-storm.  Gabe 
evidently  thought  that  the  elements,  like  human 
society,  had  grown  strenuous  and  discursive,  and 
lacked  prosaic  continuity  of  purpose.  “ There 
will  be  a great  hue  and  cry  of  snow,”  said  Gabe, 

270 


TRAILING  JUNIPER 

“but  it  won’t  amount  to  much  but  wind.  Why, 
I remember  when  we  were  snowed  in  regularly 
about  this  time  o’  year,  and  it  was  generally  a 
week  or  more  before  we  got  the  roads  open  through 
the  drifts.  We  allers  looked  for  it  as  a winter’s 
holiday.  Snow  for  Christmas  was  the  reg’lar 
thing.  Them  was  the  times  when  this  was  a grass 
country,  and  pasture-lands  kind  o’  took  care  of 
themselves.” 

What  was  it  made  me  contemplate  these  homely 
affairs  with  a complacency  that  was  — well,  what 
was  it  — enervating  or  inspiring  ? I do  not  exactly 
know.  But  I was  certainly  at  rest  with  myself, 
if  not  absolutely  at  peace.  Something  assured  me 
that  I had  taken  up  a broken  link  and  riveted  it ; 
and  believe  me,  there  is  no  achievement  in  this 
life  so  profoundly  satisfactory  as  the  consciousness 
of  having  retrieved  something  — of  being  able  to 
stand  with  both  feet  in  the  inevitable  and  say,  “ No 
longer  canst  thou  crush  me,  O ocean  of  the  Great 
Necessity,  for  I too,  with  my  will,  am  one  with 
you.”  Then  I would  look  at  the  round  intent 
face  of  the  child  who  was  my  companion.  He 
would  be  eagerly  poring  over  the  books  the  Doctor 
had  sent  him,  and  as  I stretched  invisible  arms 
across  the  table  and  enfolded  him,  without  his 
knowing  it,  I thought  with  a deep  wondering 
horror  that  a few  months  ago  there  was  a great 
gulf  between  us,  and  I with  a drawn  face  and 
blood-shot  eyes  was  plunging  with  short  breaths 
and  heavily  burdened  heart  amid  a sordid  mob. 
Scales  on  my  eyes,  forsooth.  I must  have  been 

271 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

covered  with  them  like  a prehistoric  dragon.  It 
seemed  to  me  now,  in  the  serene  flare  of  our 
wood  fire,  that  in  those  rabid  days  I had  lit  the 
torch  of  life  at  both  ends,  and  was  flourishing  it 
madly  like  a firebrand,  while  this  little  shrine  was 
left  somewhere  to  die  slowly  out  in  darkness.  At 
such  moments  Charlie  would  look  up  from  his 
book  with  a passing  wonder  in  his  clear  blue 
eyes,  as  if  he  had  felt  the  invisible  arms  touch- 
ing him. 

When  a man  comes  to  this  condition,  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  that  he  should  tell  it  to  some 
one.  To  arrive  in  a new  world  and  find  nobody 
in  it  is  perilously  near  to  wanting  to  go  back 
again.  The  only  person  who  belonged  to  this 
new  world,  who  was  an  integral  part  of  it,  and 
had  never  heard  of  any  other,  was  Griselle.  The 
Doctor  had  coasted  it,  and  thrown  over  some  ob- 
servations that  floated  about  in  it  like  bottles 
containing  valuable  memoranda,  which  I might 
fish  up  as  the  occasion  served,  but  as  for  talking 
to  the  Doctor,  that  was  out  of  the  question,  for 
he  always  did  the  talking  himself.  Gabe  was 
only  a statue,  erected  by  the  years,  and  one  doesn’t 
talk  to  bronzes,  however  historic.  Charlie  — 
well,  Charlie  invariably  thawed  out  my  state- 
ments into  mere  intuitions  for  which  there  were 
no  words,  and  they  trickled  off  into  warm  silences. 

Not  being  a literary  man,  I did  not  keep  a 
private  diary  for  other  people  to  read,  and  gener- 
ally tore  up  my  letters  with  a dull  obliviousness 
of  future  biographers.  Griselle  was  the  only 

272 


TRAILING  JUNIPER 

person  in  this  new  order  of  equilibrium,  who  wore 
a shining  air  of  perception  and  invitation.  Always 
she  seemed  to  be  saying  in  a sly  mute  way  : “Yes, 
I know,  you  have  something  to  say  to  me  that 
you  haven’t  said,  but  it  will  keep.  Wait.”  It 
is  true  the  winter  had  kept  her  out  of  our  little 
circle,  but  Gabe  came  over  pretty  regularly  to  us, 
and  he  nearly  always  brought  a neat  little  bunch 
of  her  winter  carnations,  and  there  was  something 
subtle  in  his  bringing  them,  as  if  they  said  in 
spite  of  him,  £C  Oh,  he  wouldn’t  have  thought  of 
it  — don’t  you  make  any  mistake.”  They  were 
always  delicate  reminders  to  me,  at  least,  that  the 
woman’s  remembrance  was  fragrant. 

Now,  how  could  a mature  man  in  my  condi- 
tion help  growing  sentimental  toward  Griselle  ? 
H ow  could  I help  observing  what  an  improved 
vision  I had  for  trifles,  as  I watched  all  the  shoots 
of  this  sentimentality,  as  they  came  out  in  small 
solicitudes  and  little  jealousies  ? I wondered  if 
she  preserved  her  ineffable  impartiality  by  putting 
carnations  every  day  in  her  new  guest’s  chamber. 
cc  I suppose,”  I remarked  to  Gabe,  “ that  Mr. 
Cumberland  enjoys  a bunch  of  flowers  in  his 
room,  for  nothing  takes  the  edge  off  desolation 
like  flowers.”  “ I d’  know  nothin’  ’bout  that,” 
said  Gabe,  with  sincere  indifference.  “ I guess 
the  gal  ain’t  got  pinks  enough  this  time  o’  year 
to  hand  out  to  everybody.”  Sometimes  there 
were  tones  in  Gabe’s  voice,  uncouth  as  he  was, 
that  were  really  quite  human.  Three  months  ago, 
I remarked  to  myself,  she  would  have  sent  the 

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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

flowers  to  Charlie.  That  affectation  has  died  a 
natural  death. 

It  is  not  possible  for  the  mature  man  to  obtain 
this  kind  of  vision  without  having  some  doubts 
about  it  There  were  times  when  I told  myself 
that  I had  weakly  given  way  to  hallucination  ; that 
my  ideal  was  the  one-eyed  person  in  the  land  of 
the  blind  ; that  my  fancies,  being  starved,  were 
creating  phantoms.  Very  interesting  it  was  to 
observe  with  what  conclusive  evidence  I took  my 
own  part  against  myself,  and  fell  back  on  my 
clear  vision.  Hallucinations  be  confounded.  Did 
I know  comeliness  when  I saw  it,  or  didn’t  I ? 
Did  I have  to  send  to  the  city  for  an  elite  direc- 
tory ? Was  I such  a dolt  that  purity,  innocence, 
grace,  and  loveliness  had  to  be  stamped  and  au- 
thenticated before  I could  accept  them  ? What 
was  I up  in  the  woods  for  if  not  for  Nature  ? A 
nice  poltroon  I would  be  to  turn  up  my  nose  at 
her  best  offerings. 

The  shortest  way  out  of  this  was  to  take  Gris- 
elle  into  my  confidence.  When  Gabe  came  over 
and  laid  the  carnations  on  the  table,  I asked  how 
the  young  lady’s  health  was.  This  was  very  much 
like  asking  how  Venus  liked  the  water.  But  Gabe 
only  grunted  out,  “ Oh,  the  gal’s  in  pretty  good 
shape.  She’s  out  somewhere  looking  for  Christ- 
mas greens,”  and  he  trundled  out  to  fix  up  our 
woodpile. 

“ Comrade,”  I said  to  Charlie,  “ did  you  hear 
that?  Griselle  is  looking  for  Christmas  greens. 
What  are  we  thinking  about  ? ” 

274 


TRAILING  JUNIPER 

“ I know,”  said  Charlie,  “ she  was  going  over 
to  see  if  there  wasn’t  some  trailing  juniper  on  the 
rocks.  I’ll  bet  I can  find  her.” 

It  was  not  so  easy  as  he  thought.  We  traversed 
the  woods,  skirted  one  or  two  farms,  and  threw  our 
yodels  against  all  the  rocks,  before  we  found  the 
imprint  of  her  little  foot  in  one  of  the  thin  snow 
flurries  under  the  cedars.  What  a fine  zest  that 
gave  to  our  search  ! I could  not  quite  make  out 
whether  I felt  like  Orpheus  or  like  a trapper. 
We  put  the  nose  of  the  yellow  dog  down  in  the 
footmark  to  give  her  the  trail,  but  the  exuberant 
idiot  only  barked  and  obliterated  it  by  rolling  in  it, 
for  which  she  was  kicked.  To  know  that  Griselle 
had  passed  that  way  like  balsamic  winds  was 
something.  It  reminded  me  how  well  she  could 
play  the  lost  Eurydice.  Once  we  thought  we 
heard  her  answering  our  call,  and  we  shouted 
and  listened.  A faint  mellow  response  came  on 
the  frosty  air,  but  it  turned  out  to  he  one  of  those 
other  illusive  nymphs  that  take  to  the  woods  and 
rocks  and  stay  there. 

Such  a hunt  only  adds  fuel  to  a man’s  fancies, 
giving  to  the  object  of  his  search  an  airy  unattain- 
ableness that  converts  a Gretchen  into  a Psyche. 
Strange  transcendental  possibilities  there  were  in 
rustic  womanhood  that  kept  her  just  one  re- 
move beyond  realization,  or  even  comprehension. 
Wonderful  transmutations,  when  one’s  scales  have 
dropped,  as  if  ordinary  femininity,  before  it  is 
captured,  could  pass  with  fluctuant  tenuity  through 
all  the  phases  of  Beatrice,  Rosalind,  Viola. 

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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

If  ever  you  would  know  with  a finer  sense  than 
Cowper  possessed,  what  a wealth  of  crystal  delights 
is  in  a winter’s  walk,  you  must  project  a hand- 
some girl  ahead  of  you,  just  out  of  sight.  Then 
only  will  your  imaginings  feel  the  real  spur  of 
poetry,  without,  perhaps,  as  in  my  case,  the  power 
of  utterance.  You  come  then  to  the  edge  of  a 
great  soft  mystery,  as  if  the  amorous  emotions 
and  the  physical  world  somewhere  had  a common 
starting-point  in  the  serene  conception  of  beauty. 
I never  knew  before  how  beautiful  the  dead  tree 
trunks  were.  They  shone  with  new  colours;  de- 
licious sombres  of  Vandyke,  and  soft,  dull  terra- 
cottas, and  deep  sage  greens,  with  splashes  of 
bronze  where  the  light  burnished  the  boles.  The 
vistas  shifted  and  arranged  themselves  in  colon- 
nades and  spectral  avenues,  through  which  the 
bacchante  lights  danced,  and  along  which  the 
stately  cedars  and  hemlocks,  tonsured  by  the  snow, 
stood  in  priestly  gravity,  chanting  a new  gloria. 
Back  of  all  this  paganism  of  the  mind  there  was 
a softer  association,  somehow  emitting  a deeper 
muffled  tone  of  expectation,  as  if  the  minster  bells 
of  Christmas  were  already  rung  by  the  wind,  and 
were  reverberating  through  these  cathedral  aisles. 

Griselle  was  looking  for  trailing  juniper.  What 
trailing  juniper  was,  I did  not  know.  It  was  prob- 
ably a new  order  of  the  conifera  belonging  to  the 
fairy  domain  into  which  Griselle  slipped  so  easily. 
But  the  kalmia  I knew.  It  stuck  its  green  leaves 
out  of  the  snow  patches  unblemished  and  un- 
daunted. I think  we  called  it  mountain  laurel 

276 


THE  STATELY  CEDARS  AND  HEMLOCKS,  TONSURED  BY  THE  SNOW,  STOOD  IN  PRIESTLY  GRAVITY. 


TRAILING  JUNIPER 

when  we  were  boys.  I had  always  thought  of  it 
wreathed  round  the  head  of  Petrarch  until  now, 
and  now  it  crept  out  of  the  snow  patches  and  into 
my  memory  as  festoons  wrought  by  white  fingers 
for  merry  days  and  nights,  and  specially  made  to 
throw  back  from  its  shining  leaves  the  splendours 
of  our  wood  fires.  We  cut  and  hacked  at  it,  and 
loaded  ourselves  with  triumphant  branches,  and 
set  out  homeward,  leaving  the  invisible  Griselle, 
with  much  reluctance  and  many  lookings  back,  to 
go  her  way. 

Can  a man — I mean  a mature  man  — be  a 
poet  in  desire  without  having  a pure  and  lovely 
form  ahead  of  him,  baffling  him  ? I often  thought 
afterward  how  fortunate  it  was  that  1 had  not  come 
with  my  load  of  ideals  suddenly  upon  Griselle  in 
the  winter  walk.  What  stumbling  foolishness 
might  I not  have  committed  ! What  wreck  and 
ruin  might  I not  have  made  of  the  unattainable, 
descending  in  one  evil  moment  to  melodramatic 
frenzy,  rushing  at  her  and  shouting, cc  Be  mine  — 
be  mine.”  Be  sure  I would  have  wreathed  the 
kalmia  about  her  and  danced  in  my  own  moon 
madness  like  a destroying  satyr. 

It  was  much  better  for  the  ideal  that  she  should 
shimmer  indistinctly,  and  that  we  should  hang  the 
kalmia  up  like  mistletoe  in  our  cabin  and  wait. 
There  was  an  airy  gulf  to  be  patiently  crossed. 

How  old  was  Leander  when  he  swam  the  Hel- 
lespont ? I’ll  have  to  look  that  up.  But  what 
use  ? 

Then  the  late  rains  set  in,  chilly  and  continuous. 

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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

They  beat  all  day  against  our  panes,  blurring 
them  with  running  films,  tapping  on  our  shingles 
with  little  bills,  and  sometimes  reaching  our  wood 
fire,  which  spat  at  them  like  a cat.  I had,  in 
anticipation,  dreaded  this  episode,  but  now  that 
it  had  come,  the  dreariness,  like  the  other  dis- 
comforts of  our  life,  melted  away  before  a new 
mental  attitude. 

It  is  quite  impossible  for  me  to  tell  you  why 
the  leaden  prospect,  with  rain,  rain,  rain,  falling 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  running  down  the 
tree  trunks  all  day,  and  gurgling  somewhere  in 
spasmodic  rivulets,  should  all  at  once  present 
some  slumberous  depths  that  defied  scrutiny,  but 
that  cajoled  one’s  mood.  I sat  there  before  my 
fire,  a veritable  eremite,  listening  to  a broken 
spout,  and  it  reminded  me  of  the  oboes  in  some 
symphony  I had  heard.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
symphony  of  Beethoven’s  which  Coleridge  said 
was  “ like  a funeral  procession  in  deep  purple.” 
Not  that  the  sound  of  the  spout  was  at  all  like 
the  oboe  — but  what  was  the  oboe  like,  or  the 
symphony  itself  for  that  matter  ? I have  never 
seen  a funeral  procession  in  deep  purple.  I sup- 
pose it  occasionally  sweeps  by  on  the  invisible  ele- 
ments. Out  of  the  gray  desolate  hours  I heard 
Griselle  saying  again,  “A  nor’easter  is  coming 
to  fill  up  the  ponds.”  Must  the  ponds  be  filled 
like  the  granaries  ? Was  this  a harvest  duty  of 
the  skies  ? It  really  seemed  so  to  me  at  that 
moment. 

What  did  men  do  when  they  were  shut  up  by 
27  8 


TRAILING  JUNIPER 

the  weather  in  a cabin  ? I tried  to  recall  what  it 
was  Ik  Marvel  did  on  wet  days  at  Edgewood.  I 
may  be  wrong,  but  it  seemed  to  me  he  had  made 
very  delightful  criticisms  with  pleasant  quotations 
from  the  old  poets.  He  probably  had  a library 
at  his  elbow,  and  sat  in  a deep,  cushioned  chair. 
Was  that  not  what  immemorial  country  parsons 
had  done  in  their  rainy  leisure,  telling  us  what 
they  thought  of  Chaucer  and  Marlowe  and  Lan- 
dor  and  the  author  of  “ Greenland’s  Icy  Moun- 
tains ” ? These  rainy-day  essayists  were  charming 
literary  persons.  What  should  a man  do  who 
was  only  sentimental  and  not  at  all  literary  ? 

It  occurred  to  me  that  the  proper  and  consist- 
ent thing  to  do  was  to  go  out  and  make  the 
acquaintance  of  the  rainy  weather  by  personal 
contact.  That  alone  would  warrant  an  unliterary 
man  talking  about  it.  The  proposition  met  with 
the  instant  approbation  of  Charlie  and  the  yellow 
dog ; the  latter  signified,  as  usual,  that  she  had 
not  the  faintest  conception  of  the  nuances  of  the 
affair,  and  did  not  care  a rap  of  her  tail  for  the 
moral  aspects  of  it,  but  was  always  delighted  to 
be  up  to  something  that  had  no  particular  end  in 
view.  We  put  on  rubber  coats,  and  off  we  started 
among  the  trees,  holding  our  faces  up  bravely 
against  the  rain.  It  ran  down  our  cheeks  in  cool 
rivulets,  and  dropped  off  the  ends  of  our  noses ; 
it  came  round  the  corners  in  the  woods  at  us  in 
sheets  and  swirling  dashes.  But  we  laughed  and 
defied  it.  Nothing  so  clearly  and  indefensibly 
boyish  as  this  had  so  far  in  my  mature  experience 

279 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

occurred  to  me.  It  was  like  the  incomprehensible 
bravado  of  the  urchin  who,  when  he  gets  a new 
pair  of  boots,  wades  through  all  the  mud  puddles. 
Still,  there  was  a subtle  delight  in  coming  face  to 
face  with  the  most  disagreeable  days,  and  telling 
the  season  to  her  teeth  that  we  were  immune.  It 
was  not  unlike  the  pinning  of  a ghost  in  the  cor- 
ner of  a room  after  he  has  been  shimmering  and 
clanking  absurdly.  In  such  experiences  you  tread 
softly  on  new  fraternities  that  spread  out  like 
unsuspected  moss.  The  elemental  ghosts  that 
you  have  harboured  give  way  to  new  and  lusty 
friendships,  and  after  you  have  wrestled  awhile 
with  Nature  you  learn  that,  whatever  you  may 
be,  she  is  no  sentimentalist. 

We  took  a,  look  at  the  ponds.  They  were 
swirling  and  roiled.  We  saw  no  signs  of  life, 
save  a water-rat  that  scampered  away  bedraggled 
and  forlorn.  The  bushes  along  the  banks  looked 
like  very  bad  etching.  Do  our  best,  we  were 
compelled  to  judge  of  the  scene  by  our  sensations 
and  imaginary  discomforts,  always  as  if  the  per- 
formance of  the  work  should  have  some  reference 
to  our  sensibilities,  and  had  forgotten  to  keep  up 
appearances.  A solitary  cow  in  the  meadow  was 
lying  under  a bare,  scraggly  elm,  ruminating  com- 
placently and  utterly  oblivious  of  what  we  called 
dreariness.  We  could  see  her  flanks  shining  with 
the  rain,  but  it  did  not  disturb  her.  She  had 
formed  the  habit  of  lying  under  the  tree  when 
the  sun  was  hot,  and  she  did  not  vary  her  habits 
with  any  reflections  upon  them,  so  long  as  the 

280 


TRAILING  JUNIPER 

cold  did  not  pinch  her.  Two  or  three  sheep 
were  in  the  woods  nibbling  the  sparse  laurel. 
They  had  evidently  not  been  officially  informed 
of  the  dreariness.  Some  kind  of  gap  there  was 
between  our  sensibilities  and  theirs.  What  would 
one  not  give  to  be  able  to  put  their  views  of  it 
all  into  our  words  ? a task  that  has  never  yet  been 
accomplished.  They  all  talk  at  us  in  literature 
from  our  standpoint,  and  are  interesting  to  us 
only  by  coming  over  into  our  domain  and  re- 
exhibiting our  purposes  and  desires.  Always  the 
animal  story  is  a ghost  story  to  which  the  narrator 
adds  his  own  feelings  and  desires. 

Once  back  in  our  cabin,  its  cheery  homeliness 
was  enhanced  by  our  excursion.  We  heaped  the 
logs,  fastened  the  shutter,  moved  our  table  into 
the  glow,  and  began  to  hug  our  human  delights 
with  the  old  self-consciousness.  Charlie  put  his 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  his  face  came  very  near  to 
mine  as  we  bent  over  the  story  of  adventure,  pro- 
fusely illustrated,  which  I was  to  read  to  him. 
My  arm  went  around  his  warm  little  body  with 
an  easy  clasp.  All  at  once  some  new  sense  of 
preciousness  in  the  companionship  — a fine  draw- 
ing together  of  the  nerves  of  consanguinity,  as 
if  the  bleakness  and  violence  of  the  hours  had 
forged  some  new  links,  just  as  you  have  seen  the 
members  of  a suddenly  bereaved  family  join 
hands  silently. 

<c  Charlie,’"  I said,  “ this  is  cosey  and  delightful. 
It  only  needs  one  thing  to  be  quite  homelike. 
Can  you  guess  what  it  is  ? ” 

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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


“We  ought  to  have  deer’s  horns  and  skins 
nailed  up,”  said  Charlie. 

What  a gap  between  us!  I drew  him  a little 
closer.  “ No,”  I said.  “ Deer’s  horns  and  furs 
would  not  make  it  more  secure  and  abiding.  In 
the  early  days  of  man,  when  he  hunted  and  killed, 
he  learned  gradually  to  come  and  sit  down  beside 
his  fire  and  rest  and  hope.  But  it  wasn’t  the  fire, 
Charlie.  By  and  by  he  hung  his  weapons  over 
the  mantle  — changed  them  into  ornaments — but 
it  wasn’t  the  fire.  I think  men  would  get  tired 
of  living  alone  together.  There  must  be  some- 
thing else.” 

“ I know,”  said  Charlie,  “ more  dogs,  and  a 
pony,  and  snow-shoes.” 

“ Can’t  you  think  of  anything  else  ? ” 

He  racked  his  imagination.  “ It  would  be  nice 
if  there  was  a circus  in  the  woods,  with  monkeys 
and  hyenas,  and  you  didn’t  have  to  pay  to  go  in.” 
Dear  little  ambitions,  travelling  their  own  round 
in  spite  of  me  ! I gave  it  up,  pulled  him  closer 
and  touched  his  soft  cheek,  but  there  was  some 
kind  of  invisible  space  between  us,  and  I wondered 
if  it  would  grow  larger  and  deeper  in  spite  of  our 
clasped  hands. 


282 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

WINTER  SKIES 

THE  December  woods  have  their  cordial 
aspects  if  one  is  not  over-coddled  in  his 
sensations.  We  impute  to  them  a melan- 
choly of  which  they  are  entirely  innocent,  but  it 
is  our  immemorial  habit  to  hang  our  emotions 
upon  all  boughs,  and  then,  seeing  our  own  human 
desires  flaunting  like  the  washerwoman’s  linen,  to 
call,  as  Shakspere  did,  the  boughs  “ melancholy.” 
We  carry  the  pensive  depths  of  winter  woods 
in  our  memories  — they  are  within  us,  and  so  long 
as  we  do  not  utterly  confuse  the  intent  of  Nature 
with  the  ineradicable  sense  of  evanescence  in  our- 
selves, the  melancholy  may  play  its  part  whole- 
somely enough. 

I can  understand  now  that  the  trees,  more 
columnar  and  sedate  without  their  garnishment 
of  chlorophyl,  are  like  cenotaphs  of  the  summer, 
and  do,  indeed,  seem  to  the  bereaved  sense  like 
“ bare,  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds 

283 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


sang,”  and  offer  us  newly  disclosed  brackets  to 
hang  our  regrets  upon. 

The  winter  aspects  of  the  woods  are  like  all  the 
other  aspects  of  Nature  when  seen  clearly  and  re- 
ceptively. They  are  strangely  akin  to  music  in 
stirring  unsuspected  depths  softly.  The  stark 
tree  stems  with  the  afternoon  sun  streaming 
through  them  — a deep  yellow  sunshine  that 
had  no  warmth  in  it  — were  often  associated  in 
my  mind  with  old  hymns  that  I knew  in  child- 
hood, gaunt  inexplicable  hymns  that  never  should 
have  been  taught  to  childhood.  And  the  winter 
sunsets  similarly  flooded  me  at  times  with  an  in- 
expressible sense  of  loneliness  and  separation. 
Why  a mere  deflection  in  the  angle  of  light  should 
strike  an  unknown  key  in  the  minor  mode,  if 
there  is  not  an  A minor  in  Nature  herself,  I can- 
not tell.  Those  winter  sunsets  were,  by  every 
measurement  of  the  eye,  pageants  of  exultant 
colour.  But  by  the  measurement  of  some  deeper 
and  not  understood  sense,  they  were  sheeted 
ghosts  masquerading  in  a bale  light.  All  the 
crimson  rivers  of  life  that  one  sees  in  August 
were  there,  but  they  were  clotted.  The  Isles  of 
the  Blest,  floating  in  sapphire  seas,  were  apt  to 
reach  out  affrighted  arms,  and  resolve  it  all  into 
a witches’  sunset  with  dun  shadows  lowering  and 
vast  bleak  stretches  intervening. 

Sometimes  the  December  sunset,  seen  through 
the  tree  trunks,  had  momentary  mockeries  of  un- 
earthly architecture  and  vast  golden  pampas  out 
of  which  waved  gigantic  fronds,  and  about  which 

284 


THE  WINTERS  ASPECTS  OF  THE  WOODS 


WINTER  SKIES 


rose  stupendous  II  Capitans  of  agate  and  brass. 
But  something  whispered  that  over  those  cliffs  had 
gone  all  the  sandalled  hopes  and  blithe  promises 
into  shoreless  vacancy.  A phantasmic  sub-light 
gave  it  all  a tone  of  irony  that  was  like  a faint 
chill,  and  taunted  me  with  lost  laughter  and  music 
frozen  in  mystery  and  silence. 

It  requires  considerable  courage  to  confront  the 
ominous  banners  that  we  ourselves  fling  into  the 
winter  sunset.  Men  and  women  who  never  look 
into  themselves  without  being  frightened,  run  from 
the  country  when  December  sets  her  reminders  in 
the  air.  We  call  it  the  social  season,  because  we 
come  closer  together,  and  look  into  each  other’s 
faces,  and  try  to  forget. 

Had  I been  alone  when  these  thoughts  were 
stirred  in  me,  they  must  have  taken  on  a momen- 
tary desolation  ; that  kind  of  melancholy  which 
has  sobs  in  it,  involuntary  and  unexpressed ; we 
listen  to  them  as  we  do  in  dreams,  and  they  seem, 
as  De  Quincey  puts  it,  to  have  swept  the  fields  of 
mortality  for  a thousand  years. 

But  I was  not  alone.  Griselle  and  I were 
straying  aimlessly  among  the  trees,  and  my  mood 
wore  her  as  a kind  of  armour.  We  came  suddenly 
upon  a bright  spot,  no  bigger  than  the  floor  of 
my  cabin.  It  was  vividly  green,  with  a defiant 
moss  that  spread  around  in  little  hummocks,  and 
was  fringed  by  hardy  ferns,  and  picked  out  here 
and  there  with  the  red  berries  of  the  partridge- 
vine  that  looked  like  drops  of  blood  against  the 
bronze  leaves.  Over  it  all  poured  the  almost  level 

285 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

rays  of  the  setting  sun  with  what  seemed  to  me  at 
the  moment  to  be  the  most  desolate  effulgence. 

“ It  looks,”  said  Griselle,  “like  a little  old 
graveyard.” 

“Yes,”  I replied  quickly,  somewhat  surprised 
that  she  should  have  seen  the  same  sadness  in  it. 
“ The  graveyard  of  the  race.  I wonder  why  we 
should  both  have  the  same  idea  ? ” 

“ I don’t  think  I quite  know  what  you  mean 
by  the  graveyard  of  the  race.” 

“ I mean  that  it  reminds  me  that  this  is  just 
what  the  sun  will  be  doing  when  we  are  all  gone 
and  forgotten.” 

The  tranquil  look  of  wonder  that  passed  over 
her  face  as  she  stood  there,  irradiated  by  the  same 
yellow  light,  was  quite  childlike. 

“What  a strange  idea,”  she  said. 

“ Does  not  this  sunshine  make  you  melan- 
choly P ” 

“ Not  a bit.  Why  should  it  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know,  except  that  life  itself  is  melan- 
choly, and  Nature  betrays  it  to  us  at  times.” 

“ If  the  sunlight  made  me  feel  that  way,  I am 
sure  I should  want  to  live  in  the  dark.” 

“ I’m  afraid  we  do  live  in  the  dark,  Griselle, 
and  the  light  only  enhances  the  mystery.  Tell 
me  how  it  makes  you  feel.” 

“ Oh,  I couldn’t.  I never  thought  about  it. 
It  never  affected  me  that  way.  Most  always  I 
feel  like  singing  in  the  sunshine.” 

“ Look,  in  a minute  it  will  all  be  sullen  and 
gray  and  cold.  It  hurries  so.” 

286 


WINTER  SKIES 


“ Why,  of  course.  Does  that  make  you  feel 
bad  ? ” 

“Yes  — a little.  If  it  were  only  the  sunshine, 
one  wouldn’t  care.  But  everything  else  goes 
the  same  way  and  leaves  us  in  the  cold  and 
dark.” 

“ Well,  upon  my  word,  I never  heard  you  talk 
so  before.  Are  you  afraid  the  sun  will  not  come 
back  to-morrow  ? ” 

“ Oh,  it  will  come  back,  but  it  will  never  shine 
twice  on  the  same  conditions.  Everything  else 
goes  on,  too,  toward  night.” 

“ I hope  you  do  not  talk  that  way  to  your 
boy.” 

“Would  you  like  me  to  talk  to  you  as  I talk 
to  Charlie  ? I am  very  confidential  with  him.” 

“ No.  I think  not.  I am  older  than  Charlie, 
and  you  have  taught  him  to  look  up  to  you  ” 
“Yes,  that  is  true,  and  I couldn’t  teach  you  to 
look  up  to  me,  because  in  some  things  you  are 
taller  than  I am.  Do  you  know,  as  you  stand 
there  now,  you  seem  to  be  looking  down  on  me  ? ” 
“I  do  ? Why,  you  know  so  much  it  frightens 
me.  I don’t  really  know  anything.” 

“ And  that  I find  gives  a certain  kind  of  stature 
to  one.  There  are  some  persons,  Griselle,  who  do 
not  know;  they  just  are.  It’s  curious,  isn’t  it,  that 
I should  think  of  you  in  that  way  ? ” 

“ Yes,  it  is.  It  doesn’t  sound  as  if  it  were  quite 
true.” 

How  inexpressibly  beautiful  was  the  naivete 
of  this  girl,  listening  to  the  ring  of  my  rhetoric 

287 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

and  with  poised  instinct  detecting  the  false  note 
in  it ! 

“ But  I want  it  to  be,”  I said.  “ Let  me  be 
frank  with  you,  and  tell  you  some  things.” 

“ If  they  are  unpleasant  things,  why  tell  them  ? ” 
“ Because  my  life  has  not  been  made  up  alto- 
gether of  pleasant  things,  like  yours.” 

“ Are  you  going  to  tell  me  about  your  life  ? 
Why  should  you  ? It  isn’t  necessary.” 

“ Some  things  grow  clearer  in  the  telling.  You 
know  I came  up  here  by  the  Doctor’s  advice.  He 
thought  it  was  time  I stopped  living  one  kind  of 
life  and  began  another  ; in  fact,  he  said  if  I didn’t 
stop  I wouldn’t  have  any  life  to  lead.  At  first  I 
thought  it  was  pretty  tough.  You  see,  he  didn’t 
tell  me  that  I would  meet  you,  and  when  I did 
it  wasn’t  so  tough.  I think  I should  have  gone 
back  at  the  end  of  a month  if  it  had  not  been  for 
you.” 

We  were  walking  slowly  on  our  way  back, 
quite  close  together,  and  I waited  a moment  for 
her  to  say  something. 

“ Perhaps,”  she  said  presently,  “ that  would 
have  been  the  better  way  — who  can  tell  ? ” 

cc  And  that  does  not  sound  as  if  it  were  true,” 
I answered.  “ I am  a better  man  than  I was.” 
“ Were  you  really  so  very  bad  then  ? ” 

“ It  looks  in  this  light  as  if  I must  have  been, 
not  quite  a reprobate,  perhaps,  but  about  as  sel- 
fish, heedless,  and  headlong  as  a man  can  be. 
Try  and  fancy  a man  living  at  the  top  of  his 
speed ; short-breathed,  in  a kind  of  blind  high 

288 


WINTER  SKIES 


fever  of  excitement,  too  eager  for  him  to  stop,  too 
impatient  for  him  to  consider,  too  anxious  for 
him  to  rest.  Fancy  him  whipped  out  of  it  all 
suddenly  and  set  down  where  it  is  cool  and  calm 
and  silent,  and  everything  seemed  to  be  saying, 
c What  have  you  been  making  such  a clatter 
about  ? All  that  is  abiding  and  precious  in  life 
was  before  you,  and  will  be  here  after  you,  secure 
and  unperturbed.’  Then  imagine  some  one  com- 
ing into  that  still  life  who  seemed  to  be  the  ulti- 
mate expression  of  it,  as  if  the  indulgent  skies 
and  equitable  sunshine  had  said,  c We  will  do  our 
best  to  help  you  on  in  the  paths  of  peace,  but  as 
you  cannot  yet  understand  our  language,  we  send 
you  our  best  human  product  to  say  what  we  can- 
not.’ I suppose  it  has  been  so  in  all  dispensa- 
tions, Griselle.  Whenever  man  gets  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  ministering  elements,  they  send  him 
articulate  prophets  and  priestesses  out  of  the 
wilderness.” 

Poor  Griselle.  She  had  never  been  talked  to 
like  this  before.  But  was  there  ever  a true 
woman  anywhere  in  field  or  in  palace  who  was 
not  made  to  be  talked  to  at  some  time  in  just  this 
way,  and  who,  unlike  Gretchen,  did  not  accept  it 
all  as  the  service  due  to  her  womanly  ordination  ? 

“ I am  sure,”  said  Griselle,  somewhat  falteringly, 
and  with  her  head  turned  away,  “ I was  only  try- 
ing to  be  neighbourly  and  social  — it  is  quite 
natural.” 

“ Quite  natural,  yes.  That  was  the  crowning 
glory  of  it.  It  was  so  sure  to  take  its  natural 

289 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

course.  You  can  understand  that  your  acquaint- 
anceship might  become  so  necessary  to  me  that 
I could  not  think  of  losing  it.” 

“ It  never  entered  my  head  to  break  it  off,” 
said  Griselle. 

“ But  some  intimacies  are  like  fevers ; they  come 
to  a crisis,  and  there  is  either  a convalescence  or  a 
collapse  beyond.” 

“ It  seems  very  odd  to  speak  of  a friendship  as 
you  would  of  a sickness.  Why  should  there  be 
any  fever  in  our  acquaintance  ? ” 

This  was  an  allowable  prevarication  that  we 
admire  and  condone  in  a woman  who  is  in  a cor- 
ner and  has  no  other  weapon.  The  sun  was  gone ; 
but  there  was  a flash  of  his  red  light,  I thought, 
in  her  cheek  as  I bent  forward  and  tried  to  look 
into  her  face.  It  would  not  do  to  carry  this  in- 
determinate conversation  much  further,  or  I would 
begin  to  feel  a pity  for  her. 

“ Griselle,”  I said,  and  my  attempt  to  be  ex- 
plicit made  it  sound  somewhat  solemn. 

“Yes,”  said  Griselle,  in  the  softest  abeyant 
tone. 

“You  know  what  I have  been  trying  to  say, 
although  I have  not  said  it.” 

I thought  she  started  a little  ahead  of  me  as 
if  mere  maiden  modesty  had  impulses  like  mas- 
culine ardour.  We  were  nearing  the  cabin.  I 
could  see  the  dull  flicker  of  our  wood  fire  in  the 
window-panes,  and  I thought  I heard  Charlie  and 
the  yellow  dog  coming  to  meet  me. 

“ Griselle,”  I said,  “ I have  been  making  love 
290 


WINTER  SKIES 


to  you.  I did  it  in  a most  clumsy  way,  but  1 
want  you  to  know  that  I would  not  have  dared 
to  do  it,  even  in  that  round-about  fashion,  if  I 
had  not  intended  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife/’ 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  at  me.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  water,  and  I thought  she  looked 
a little  frightened. 

“ Oh,  you  mustn’t,’’  she  said. 

“ Must  not  — oh,  come,  now;  when  you  have 
thought  it  all  over,  and  know  how  deliberate  and 
sincere  it  is,  you  will  be  able  to  listen  to  me  with- 
out any  timidity.  Is  there  any  good  reason  why 
I should  not  at  least  ask  you  ? ” 

“Yes  — there  is.  I’m  engaged  to  be  married 
already.  I ought  to  have  told  you  before.” 
Then  she  whipped  out  her  little  handkerchief, 
and  it  gleamed  in  the  dusk  a moment  like  a 
night-moth. 

I stood  mute.  We  were  not  far  from  the  cabin. 
The  door  was  open,  and  a red  glow  shot  across 
the  space  in  front  like  a patch.  In  it  I saw  the 
silhouettes  of  Charlie  and  the  yellow  dog.  I 
think  I called  her  cc  Miss  Hotchkiss,”  and  said 
something  about  begging  her  pardon,  that  must 
have  been  awfully  unlike  my  previous  tones. 
But  she  only  said,  “ It’s  my  fault.  I’ll  tell  you 
about  it  at  some  other  time.  You  have  made 
me  so  nervous  that  I cannot  talk  now.  Let  me 
go  back,  please,  alone.” 

And  then  she  fled  away  into  the  shadows.  I 
saw  her  cross  the  red  glow  that  came  from  my 
door,  all  her  sylphlike  beauty  coming  out  sud- 

291 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

denly  in  the  last  gleam.  Charlie  was  there.  I 
saw  her  bend  down,  put  her  arm  about  him,  and 
kiss  him.  Then  she  melted  out  like  a vision  into 
the  dull  vista. 

I leaned  against  one  of  the  tree  trunks,  staring 
in  the  direction  she  had  taken.  As  I recall  the 
state  of  mind  in  which  she  had  left  me,  it  seems 
to  me  that  it  was  chiefly  that  of  acutely  sharpened 
faculties.  I heard  a cricket  chirping  somewhere, 
and  wondered  if  he  kept  it  up  all  winter.  I 
counted  some  of  the  tree  trunks  mechanically, 
and  noticed  how  unchangeable  they  were.  A 
heavy,  musky  scent  came  up  from  the  meadow. 
I thought  it  was  unnecessarily  odorous.  I looked 
about  me  to  discover  some  evidences  of  change. 
Rut  everything  was  obdurately  unmoved,  and  a 
star  glimmered  through  the  branches  with  cold 
indifference. 

Charlie  and  the  yellow  dog  were  approaching 
with  noisy  ignorance  of  any  disturbance  of  the 
natural  order.  I started  forward  sullenly,  saying 
to  myself,  “ Here  the  Nature  cure  breaks  down. 
What  a farce  it  all  is  ! Life  is  an  endless  series 
of  metamorphoses,  and  those  men  were  right  who 
got  all  there  was  out  of  it  while  it  lasted.” 

“What  did  you  scold  Griselle  for?”  asked 
Charlie. 

“ I didn't  scold  her,  Comrade.” 

<c  Well,  she  was  crying,  and  she  acted  as  if  ^he 
was  sorry.” 

£C  Sorry,”  I repeated,  taking  him  by  the  hand 
“ Perhaps  she  is.” 


292 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

SNOWED  IN 

THE  great  disadvantage  of  being  in  the  woods 
to  a man  of  affairs  is  that  he  has  no  friendly 
distractions  — no  boon  excitements.  He 
cannot  disentangle  himself  from  the  snarl  of  him- 
self, cannot  step  out  into  external  hullabaloo. 
That  vortex  which  was  always  a near-by  relief  is 
gone.  He  cannot  drown  his  conscience  or  his 
memory  by  taking  a header  into  absolute  calm. 
He  is  thus  in  danger  of  becoming  an  incubus  to 
himself,  if  he  is  driven  in  upon  solitude  by  the 
season.  He  is  unable  to  expend  his  emotional 
forces  along  the  lines  of  his  muscles.  As  there 
is  nothing  to  see  or  to  do,  the  surplus  energies 
revert  to  the  centres  and  he  goes  up  and  down, 
as  you  have  seen  the  carnivora  pace  their  cages. 

To  make  matters  worse,  it  came  on  to  snow. 
That  promised  imprisonment.  Charlie  and  I 
watched  the  great  flakes  coming  softly  down  thick 
and  fast,  and  Charlie’s  delight  became  ironical,  for 

293 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

he  echoed  the  very  words  I had  used  when  in 
another  mood. 

<c  It  is  going  to  be  awfully  jolly,”  he  said,  “ to 
be  snowed  in.  We  can  heap  up  our  logs.  No 
one  will  interrupt  us,  and  you  can  put  on  your 
slippers,  and  read  me  all  the  books  that  you 
promised.” 

“ Perhaps,”  I said,  “it  will  turn  to  rain.  I 
don’t  think  it  will  snow  long.  It  is  coming  down 
too  thick.” 

Then  we  stood  at  the  window  and  watched  it 
with  entirely  unlike  feelings.  “ Oh,  yes,  it  will,” 
he  said,  with  something  like  eager  delight.  “See, 
the  hickory  stump  is  all  covered  already.  Maybe 
we’ll  have  to  stay  indoors  for  a month,”  and  he 
actually  clapped  his  hands.  I heard  a responsive 
rap  of  a tail  somewhere  on  the  floor.  It  was  a 
dog’s  way  of  applauding. 

There  was  something  accusative  in  that  dear 
boy’s  gladness  at  being  shut  in  with  me  for  a 
month.  Such  loyalty  as  that,  springing  from  a 
simple,  satisfied  affection,  made  my  manhood 
blush. 

“ Charlie,”  I said,  “ I don’t  think  it  is  snowing 
so  thick  and  fast  now.  Doesn’t  it  look  as  if  the 
flakes  are  smaller  ? ” 

“ No;  they  are  bigger.  Wouldn’t  it  be  fun  if 
it  kept  on  all  day  and  all  night  ? Gracious  ! it 
would  be  up  to  the  windows.” 

“ We  couldn’t  walk  to  the  railroad  station 
through  this  very  well,”  I remarked  meditatively. 

“ Oh,  yes,  we  could,”  said  exultant  young  Faith, 
294 


SNOWED  IN 


“ But  we  don’t  want  to.”  Then  a new  thought 
occurred  to  him.  “ If  it  should  snow  all  night, 
it  might  freeze,  and  then  we  could  make  snow- 
shoes,  and  go  out  on  the  crust.” 

“ Yes,  if  it  only  would,  that  would  be  some 
comfort.  Nobody  can  get  to  us  from  the  farm- 
house if  this  continues  for  two  hours.” 

“ Griselle  will  come  over  sure.  She  likes  the 
snow,  and  Gabe  has  got  a jumper.  She  promised 
me  a straw-ride  as  soon  as  the  snow  came.” 

“ I’m  afraid  that  she  has  changed  her  mind, 
Comrade.” 

There  was  some  kind  of  fascination  in  the  fall- 
ing flakes.  We  stood  there  and  watched  them 
with  an  indescribable  interest.  The  moment  we 
stopped  talking,  the  stillness  of  it  all  seemed  pal- 
pable, and  the  silent  spectacle  of  motion  without 
sound  was  suggestive  to  me  of  unmeasured  forces 
that  I had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  estimating. 
So  thick  were  the  flakes  that  the  prospect  through 
the  trees  was  completely  veiled  fifty  feet  away. 
All  that  we  could  see  were  myriad  fluttering  crys- 
tals near  at  hand  as  they  crossed  the  dark  trunks, 
and  the  occasional  bend  of  a cedar  branch  to 
empty  its  load  softly  upon  the  ground. 

To  stand  still  and  watch  the  snow-storm  with  a 
wondering  restfulness,  and  to  acknowledge  that 
there  was  in  its  silence  some  kind  of  inscrutable 
beneficence,  had  not  been  possible  for  me  a year 
before.  It  had  in  it,  in  spite  of  myself,  a dumb 
soft  reminder  of  being  once  more  covered  up  and 
tucked  in,  without  words,  by  protective  hands. 

295 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


It  seemed  to  me  to  possess  an  unhuman  equa- 
nimity and  to  breathe  into  one  a serene  helpless- 
ness. There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  submit. 
I walked  the  floor  in  a brown  study,  coming  back 
to  the  window  at  intervals  to  see  if  it  were  turning 
into  rain,  and  to  find  that  it  was  coming  down  as 
thick  and  fast  as  ever. 

I must  confess  that  I took  it  more  easily  than 
my  mood  warranted ; and  when,  as  Charlie  had 
predicted,  we  were  snowed  in  up  to  the  windows, 
and  the  odorous  smokiness  of  our  cabin  invited 
me  to  sit  down  and  become  as  snug  as  a bug  in  a 
rug,  and  watch  Charlie  build  railroad  cars  with 
Montaigne  and  “Robinson  Crusoe”  and  Jules 
Verne,  I could  not  help  picturing  what  ought  to 
have  been,  if  I could  have  directed  Nature  into 
the  proper  path,  and  there  was  a Florentine  maid 
sewing  in  the  rocker  beside  me.  This  sort  of 
reverie  was  invariably  followed  by  a strong  desire 
to  get  out  immediately  and  plunge  into  the  world, 
where  I could  make  some  glittering  sensations  do 
service  for  the  illusions  that  had  been  destroyed. 

I did  not  undertake  to  disguise  from  myself 
that  I had  made  what  we  call  on  the  street  “ a 
very  bad  break.”  It  was  rather  humiliating  to 
acknowledge  that  I had  been  fooling  myself  to 
the  top  of  my  bent  with  a rustic  hallucination. 
But  I did  not  become  quite  maudlin  over  it,  and 
stoutly  insisted  to  myself  that  I would  easily  get 
over  the  matter,  if  I could  only  once  return  to  the 
habitual  diversions  and  projects  of  a busy  life. 

That  was  easily  and  bravely  said,  no  doubt,  but 
296 


SNOWED  IN 


it  only  brought  vividly  to  my  mind  what  an 
incredible  blank  Griselle  had  left  in  it.  And  how 
was  one  to  get  out  with  the  snow  coming  down  at 
that  rate  ? It  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to 
carry  the  flowers  that  annoy  you  into  another  room 
and  shut  the  door.  But  it  is  not  so  easy  to  get' 
rid  of  the  odour  they  leave  behind.  Somehow  that 
girl  had  grown  tenderly  and  softly  like  a wild  vine 
round  my  recollections.  To  grub  up  the  whole 
growth  and  scatter  its  petals  was  at  once  a duty 
and  a desecration.  She  was  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried. Why  had  not  my  mature  acumen  discovered 
that  *n  time?  Why  had  she  not  discovered  it  to 
me  as  in  duty  bound  when  she  saw,  as  a woman 
must  have  seen,  how  matters  were  going ; and 
when  she  did  discover  it  to  me,  — why  the  tears, 
and  the  nervous  fight,  as  if  she,  too,  had  been 
drifting  and  had  suddenly  woke  up  to  it  all  ? 

Still  it  snowed.  The  whirling  flakes  were  piling 
up  a barrier  of  reminders,  — great  banks  of  spotless 
separation.  When  we  went  to  bed  it  was  snowing 
still.  Long  after  Charlie  was  asleep,  I lay  on  my 
back  dumbly  conscious  of  an  unearthly  stillness, 
for  all  the  entrances  of  sound  were  choked,  and 
the  house  itself,  which  ordinarily  had  so  many 
whispering  voices,  was  muffled.  The  only  lisp 
that  gave  evidence  of  motion  was  the  sap  that  was 
stewing  at  the  end  of  my  backlog  in  the  fireplace. 

When  morning  came,  we  were  snowed  in  and  the 
flakes  were  coming  down  still,  but  finer  and  more 
dispersed.  We  had  to  stand  on  a chair  and 
look  out  of  the  upper  part  of  the  sash  to  see  the 

297 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

result.  To  Charlie  it  was  a supreme  consumma' 
tion.  He  had  never  before  seen  so  much  snow, 
and  he  had  an  impatient  desire  to  get  out  into  it. 
It  made  its  presence  felt  in  our  cosey  room  in 
a manner  wholly  indescribable.  We  knew  that 
the  snow  was  lying  deep  over  the  whole  country 
before  we  satisfied  ourselves  of  it  with  our  eyes. 
The  sound  of  our  voices  had  a muted  quality. 
There  was  about  us  a new  hush  that  suggested 
enswathement,  and  the  atmosphere  was  full  of 
nitrogen. 

Such  a situation  recalled  into  service  the  Rob- 
inson Crusoe  instincts.  We  were  suddenly  cut 
off  absolutely  from  our  kind.  I had  no  means 
of  knowing  how  deep  the  drifts  were  on  the  roads, 
but  it  was  certain  that  travel  must  be  blocked 
temporarily.  Doubtless  a rescue  party  would 
start  out  in  time  and  try  to  get  through  to  us 
from  the  farm-house.  Charlie  had  a confident 
belief  that  we  would  hear  Griselle  approaching 
with  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells.  Meanwhile  we 
must  wait  and  count  up  our  resources.  Fortu- 
nately our  woodpile  was  handy  and  ample ; our 
barrel  of  kerosene  not  half  used ; our  shelves  of 
canned  goods  still  full,  and  there  were  several 
bags  of  boneless  bacon  hanging  from  the  kitchen 
beams.  “We  shall  not  have  to  eat  the  yellow 
dog,”  I said  with  forced  hilarity  to  Charlie.  “ But 
we  must  open  a path  or  two  from  our  doors. 
What  was  that?  Something  cracked.” 

“ I heard  that  several  times,”  said  Charlie.  “ I 
guess  it’s  the  roof.” 


298 


SNOWED  IN 


It  gave  me  quite  a start.  I had  not  thought 
of  it  before,  but  that  old  roof  was  hardly  able  to 
stand  under  two  feet  of  snow,  and  it  complained 
when  the  overhanging  boughs  emptied  an  addi- 
tional load  upon  it.  It  might  collapse  at  any 
moment.  With  a great  deal  of  difficulty  I got 
the  door  open,  for  it  opened  out  and  the  snow 
was  piled  against  it  three  feet  high.  Then  we 
tried  to  get  the  yellow  dog  to  play  the  part  of 
Noah’s  dove,  but  she  utterly  refused  the  role, 
and  only  sniffed  at  the  white  bank,  and  wagged 
her  tail  with  the  general  significance  of  “No,  I 
thank  you,  master.”  After  much  pushing  and 
floundering,  I made  my  way  through  the  drift 
far  enough  to  get  a view  of  the  roof,  and  found 
that  on  the  northern  side  of  the  house  the  snow 
was  piled  up  halfway  to  the  eaves.  Then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  there  was  an  unused  hemlock 
board  lying  against  the  kitchen,  and  if  I could  get 
that  on  top  of  the  drift,  I could  stand  upon  it, 
and  with  an  extemporized  hoe  pull  a great  deal 
of  the  snow  from  the  roof.  I must  have  worked 
the  whole  morning  at  this  job,  forgetting  for  the 
time  being  everything  else ; pulling  out  old  nails 
here  and  there  with  a hatchet,  for  I had  no  ham- 
mer, and  finally,  with  incredible  exertion,  getting 
upon  my  plank  and  finding  that  I could  dislodge 
with  superhuman  effort  about  five  pounds  of 
snow  at  a pull  — and  the  roof  must  have  been 
carrying  about  a ton  and  a half.  Just  as  I was 
getting  discouraged,  about  ten  feet  of  it  gave  way, 
and  sliding  down,  landed  upon  me  like  an  ava- 

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A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

lanche,  knocking  me  off  the  board  and  burying 
me  out  of  sight — not  so  deep,  however,  as  to 
prevent  me  from  hearing  the  joyous  chorus  of 
laughter  and  barks  inside  the  house.  When  I 
regained  the  surface,  I saw  that  where  the  snow 
had  slid  off,  the  roof  was  black  and  wet,  and  then 
I knew  that  the  warm  shingles  were  doing  my 
work  better  than  I could  do  it  myself  When  I 
got  back  into  the  house  and  had  shaken  myself 
clear  of  snow,  I explained  to  Charlie  what  I 
thought  at  the  time  was  a brilliant  discovery. 
There  was  a wooden  trap  in  our  ceiling  that  led 
to  the  loft.  I managed,  with  extraordinary  labour, 
to  get  it  open,  and  then  we  piled  the  logs  on  the 
fire.  Never  before  was  there  such  a blaze  seen 
on  a hearth.  In  a little  while,  it  was  roaring  and 
spitting  and  vomiting  flame  out  under  the  trees. 
c‘  We’ll  make  it  too  hot  for  the  snow,”  I said,  as 
I danced  in  front  of  the  scorching  conflagration, 
with  a broom  in  my  hand  and  my  hat  over  my 
face,  sweeping  back  the  coals.  We  stood  it  as  long 
as  we  could  with  our  coats  off,  Charlie  going  up 
and  down,  fanning  himself,  and  saying  “Phew;” 
and  the  yellow  dog  with  her  tongue  hanging  out, 
backed  away  to  a far  corner.  Then  we  took  to 
the  kitchen,  and  it  was  not  long  before  we  heard 
the  drip  from  the  eaves,  and  an  occasional  slide 
of  snow,  which  led  me  to  congratulate  myself 
that  the  pressure  on  the  roof  was  growing  momen- 
tarily less.  But  no  sooner  had  this  relief  come, 
than  we  became  aware  of  a general  commotion 
under  our  floor.  “ Whatever  inhabitants  are  there, 

300 


SNOWED  IN 


are  moving  their  chattels  and  families  from  the 
vicinity  of  the  red-hot  hearthstone,”  I said. 

“ Perhaps  it’s  afire,”  said  Charlie. 

“Well,  don't  clap  your  hands.  If  it  is,  we 
shall  have  to  move  ourselves.  Suppose  you  look 
around  the  surbase  and  see  if  there’s  any  smoke, 
while  I get  a pail  of  water.” 

I look  back  at  those  hours  now  with  placid 
enjoyment.  We  were  snowed  in  for  a week,  but 
we  came  to  know  each  other  with  an  intimacy 
that  has  lasted  through  many  years. 

While  I have  been  writing  this,  Charlie  has 
come  in.  He  is  almost  as  tall  as  I am  now.  He 
came  over  and  put  his  arm  on  my  shoulder,  for 
I called  him  “ Comrade,”  as  I did  in  those  jolly 
vagabond  days,  and  it  must  have  brought  back 
some  tacit  pledges  that  we  made  to  each  other 
when  we  were  shut  up  together,  and  which  I am 
proud  to  say  we  have  never  broken. 

But  to  go  back.  I was  about  to  say  that  the 
enforced  solitude  drove  me  in  on  myself  with  a 
finer  scrutiny  ; and  as  that  was,  after  all,  the  prin- 
cipal result  that  the  Doctor  had  in  view,  I ought 
to  emphasize  it  as  much  as  possible  for  the  bene- 
fit of  all  my  brother  acrobats  and  contortionists 
in  the  great  circus.  The  Doctor  was  quite  right 
when  he  said  that  to  “ stop  ” was  little  less  than  a 
miracle,  and  I now  feel  convinced  that  he  drew 
me  into  this  box,  where  I was  compelled  to 
“ stop  ” whether  I would  or  not.  And  there  he 
showed  his  sagacity.  Meditative  as  the  snow- 
storm made  me,  I confess  that  if  I could  have 

301 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 


summoned  a cutter,  I would  have  fled  with 
Charlie  away  from  the  vacuum  that  had  suddenly 
come  into  it  all,  and  plunged  once  more  into  the 
madding  crowd. 

One  grows  restless  when  he  is  forced  to  sit 
down  with  the  ghosts  of  bright  hours  perished, 
even  when  it  is  before  his  own  wood  fire.  It  is 
too  much  like  the  temptations  of  those  old  saints, 
without  their  resisting  power.  Do  my  best,  a 
Florentine  maid  fitted  in  between  me  and  the 
flames,  absurdly  enough  wearing  the  air  of  a 
“ Lost  Lenore.”  She  beckoned  from  autumnal 
woods  with  a bunch  of  calamus.  She  came  over 
russet  fields,  always  like  one  of  Canova’s  nymphs, 
and  she  murmured  beside  the  still  waters,  “ I 
would  not  live  always,”  as  if  she  wished  me  to 
understand  that  she  was  only  a fleeting  fantasy. 
But  always  to  me  she  was  a princess  in  disguise, 
and  I was  detecting  her  under  her  rusticity. 

When  a girl  or  a hallucination  gets  so  braided 
into  one’s  imagination,  one  is  not  going  to  take 
her  at  her  word  too  recklessly  and  let  her  slip  out 
of  keeping.  The  tears  — the  tears,  why  the  tears? 
Merely  being  engaged  is  not  always  final,  at  least 
with  a girl  or  a hallucination. 

At  the  end  of  five  days  Gabe  got  through  to 
me  with  a team  and  a large  farm  sled.  He  had 
had  hard  work,  and  his  horses  were  lathered  and 
steaming.  When  he  came  in  and  lit  his  pipe  with 
a coal  of  my  fire,  I pushed  a chair  over  at  him  and 
tackled  him,  as  we  say,  on  a vital  subject,  coming 
at  him  bluntly  and  familiarly. 

302 


SNOWED  IN 


cc  Mr.  Hotchkiss,  your  niece  told  me  she  was 
engaged  to  be  married.  Now,  I take  as  much 
interest  in  that  girl  as  if  I were  another  uncle. 
Who’s  the  man  ? ” 

“ He’s  a young  wheelwright  over  at  Slocum,” 
said  Gabe,  without  the  decency  of  hesitation. 

u Oh,  a wheelwright,  is  he?  Honest,  industri- 
ous, poor,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  I suppose  ! ” 
“ Guess  he’s  about  as  honest  as  the  rest  of 
’em,”  said  Gabe,  “ but  he  hasn’t  come  to  that 
p’int  where  he  can  make  a livin’  fer  two.  We’re 
goin’  to  hev  a big  February  thaw  and  an  early 
spring.” 

Gabe’s  information  made  me  a trifle  desperate. 
cc  If  you  get  to  the  village,  I wish  you  would  send 
me  a livery  team,”  I said.  “ I want  to  go  to  the 
city. 

Then  I walked  to  the  window,  and  I’ll  be 
hanged  if  it  wasn’t  snowing  again. 


3°3 


CHAPTER  XXV 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  EXfLES 

CC  TJERE  we  are  again,”  said  the  Doctor, 
X A quite  like  the  clown  in  the  circus,  as  he 
stamped  about,  shedding  snow  and  over- 
wraps.  “You  see,  I defy  heaven  itself,  my  son, 
when  you  begin  to  blubber.  I got  your  letter. 
What  in  thunder  has  happened  to  you  now  ? ” 

I tried  to  laugh.  “ Genuine  heart  failure  this 
time,”  I said.  “ But  I did  not  intend  to  drag 
you  through  this  snow.  I only  wanted  to  relieve 
myself  when  I wrote  that  letter.  I had  to  con- 
fide in  somebody.  You  will  say  I am  a consum- 
mate noodle,  and  so  I am,  but  the  blow  staggered 
me  a little.” 

“ The  blow  ? What  blow  ? Are  you  using 
metaphors  or  medical  terms  ? Suppose  you  come 
down  to  the  literal  tomfoolery  of  it.” 

“ That  girl.” 

<c  Oh,  ho  ! ” 


3°4 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  EXILES 


cc  Have  patience  with  me.  She  is  going  to 
marry  the  village  wheelwright.” 

C£  Christopher  Columbus  ! and  so  the  heavens 
are  falling.  Did  you  get  me  up  here  for  that 
cataclysm,  confound  your  lubberly  organic  pulp!” 
“ I didn't  suppose  you  would  come  flying  up 
in  this  manner.  There’s  nothing  you  can  do 
except  listen  to  me ; about  the  last  thing  in  the 
world  I should  expect  you  to  do.  The  blow 
has  fallen.  The  account  is  made  up.  The  cur- 
tain has  dropped.  Don’t  you  want  to  take  those 
heavy  boots  off  and  make  yourself  comfortable, 
now  you  are  here  ? ” 

u No.  It  may  be  necessary  for  me  to  get  away 
in  order  to  be  comfortable,  and  so  I will  remain 
prepared  to  fly  in  disgust,  if  this  thing  goes  too 
far.  Do  you  understand  that  I haven’t  wasted 
all  this  time  with  you  for  a mere  diversion;  that 
there  was  a great  principle  at  stake ; that  my  pro- 
fessional acumen  was  involved  ; that  I was  pitted 
against  sudden  death,  and  did  not  expect  to  be 
done  up  by  a rustic  petticoat  ? And  now  you 
write  me  that  the  jig  is  up.  Have  you  taken 
nine  months  to  make  a monkey  of  me?  ” 

C£  Doctor,  you  had  better  keep  your  explosion 
for  the  last  act  — it  is  always  more  appropriate 
there  than  in  the  prelude.” 

But  I might  as  well  have  tried  to  stop  that 
mill-race  over  at  the  dam  with  an  apostrophe. 
He  swept  on  : — 

££You  may  have  a right  to  smash  your  own 
prospects,  but  you  have  no  right  to  upset  my 

3°5 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

theories  with  your  nonsense,  and,  after  nearly  a 
year  of  discipline  and  moral  purgation,  to  tell  me 
that  it  is  all  for  nothing,  and  you  haven’t  learned 
a blessed  thing.  What  have  you  done  — killed 
your  rival  ? ” 

“Yes.  What  else  could  a man  do  who  has 
been  taking  the  nature  cure  so  long,  and  had  all 
his  natural  energies  at  high  tension,  thanks  to 
you  ? Do  you  know  who  the  man  is  ?” 

“ How  the  devil  should  I know,  or  why  should 
I care  ? ” 

“ It  is  the  young  wheelwright  who  drove  us  over 
from  Slocum  ; that  troglodyte  of  the  sequestered 
hamlet  has  been  engaged  to  the  nymph  of  the  air 
all  along.  The  incommensurable  is  to  marry  the 
unessential.  The  ideal  ends  in  a negation,  and 
spirituality  drops  to  spokeshaves.  Daphne  re- 
verts to  potatoes.  Nature  breaks  off  in  a chasm. 
It  must  be  plain  to  you  that,  with  all  your  teach- 
ings fresh  in  my  mind,  I could  not  stand  still  and 
see  this  sacrilege  without  feeling  that  the  ongoing, 
uplifting,  and  inspiring  nature  of  things  had  been 
threatened,  and  that  it  was  the  duty  of  the  purged 
man  to  become  a rescuer,  a champion,  an  avenger, 
a restorer.” 

The  Doctor  was  pounding  the  fist  of  one  hand 
into  the  palm  of  the  other  impatiently. 

“ Ongoing  and  uplifting  pickles  ! ” he  said.  “ I 
had  a faint  hope  that,  if  you  became  intimate  with 
the  ordained  ongoing  of  some  things,  you  would 
learn  not  to  stick  your  Wall  Street  impertinence 
in  between  them.  If  you  have  not  learned  that 

3°6 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  EXILES 

some  things  arrange  themselves  by  primordial 
decree  better  than  you  can  arrange  them,  then  is 
the  Nature  cure  a hissing  sham,  and  I am  a con- 
victed duffer.  You  led  me  to  believe  that  you 
could  lift  yourself  by  your  own  waistband  above 
the  animals.  I was  fool  enough  to  believe  it. 
And  now  you  shatter  all  my  hopes  and  smash 
your  own  peace  of  mind  with  an  act  of  incompre- 
hensible damn  nonsense.  Excuse  my  vehemence 
— where  is  that  boy  ? ” 

“ He’s  out  there  with  the  yellow  dog,  making 
a snow-man.  Swear  away.” 

“ That  is  what  you  ought  to  be  doing,  in- 
stead of  trying  to  make  snow-women  out  of  hot 
blood.” 

“ You  are  right.  I acknowledge  it.  But  you 
might  as  well  let  me  make  a clean  breast  of  it. 
It  will  aggravate  you,  but  it  will  relieve  me ; be- 
sides, it  will  all  come  out  sooner  or  later,  and  you 
had  better  hear  it  from  me.” 

“ Great  Scott ! has  the  ongoing  got  so  far  as  a 
scandal,  or  a crime  ? ” 

“ Listen  to  me,  please.  That  girl  came  into  my 
life  with  a thousand  irresistible  charms  that  were 
like  tentacles.” 

“ Figs  1 ” said  the  Doctor. 

“ She  wound  herself  about  all  the  outlooks  of 
my  better  nature  like  a wild  vine  — ” 

“ Moonshine,”  said  the  Doctor. 
cc  She  fitted  herself  unconsciously  to  all  the 
sweeter  aspirations  that  you  had  evoked  — ” 
“Laura  Matilda  rubbish,”  remarked  the  Doctor. 
307 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

cc  She  let  me  grow  up  to  believe  that  she  was  a 
necessity  of  my  existence  — ” 

“ Raspberry  jam,”  said  the  Doctor. 

“Then  she  told  me  that  she  was  engaged  to 
the  village  wheelwright.” 

“Well,  I told  you  that  three  months  ago.  It 
was  part  of  the  nature  of  things.” 

“ Pardon  me.  It  was  a glaring  impossibility 
in  the  nature  of  things  as  you  had  taught  me  to 
observe  them.  It  was  one  of  those  outrages  that 
defy  and  desecrate  the  evolution  of  the  beautiful. 
It  could  not,  it  must  not  be.  In  my  healthful 
condition  of  mind,  the  wheelwright  was  a disease. 
I must  meet  it  as  you  would,  and  remove  it,  for 
I had  your  example  before  me.” 

« Bosh  ! ” 

“ I found  him.  I was  deadly  calm  and  deter- 
mined. He  was  weakly  frank  and  amiable.  c You 
love  Griselle,’  I said.  c Yes,  I do,’  he  answered, 
with  the  bland  innocence  of  a mollusk  trying  to 
scale  heaven.  cYou  thought  of  marrying  her/ 
c Dreamed  of  it  for  two  years/  he  said.  c But 
you  haven’t  accomplished  your  fell  purpose,’  I 
said  between  my  teeth.  c I am  waiting,’  he  said, 
c until  I can  support  a wife.’  c You  must  be 
aware  by  this  time  that  you  never  can  — such  a 
wife,  and  that  having  wasted  a reasonable  length 
of  time  in  vain  hopes,  you  ought  to  give  some 
one  else  a chance.’  c Oh,  no,’  said  this  Lothario 
of  the  workbench,  c she  will  wait  ten  years.  So 
will  I.  Something  will  turn  up  at  some  time  to 
help  us  out.  I have  an  old  mother  to  take  care 

308 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  EXILES 


of,  and  I cannot  neglect  her  at  present  to  get 
married,  for  I only  make  ten  dollars  a week,  and 
a man  can’t  marry  on  that,  at  least  not  such  a 
woman  as  Griselle.’  c But  you  never  expect  to 
get  any  more,’  I said  grimly.  c Oh,  yes,  I do,’ 
he  replied.  £ If  I had  a little  capital  just  now. 
I’d  go  to  Spelldown  and  set  up  for  myself.  The 
wheelwright  of  that  place  has  just  died.’  c How 
much  capital  would  it  take  ? ’ I asked,  with  cold 
irony.  c About  six  hundred  dollars,’  he  said 
frankly.  c I tried  to  borrow  it  of  Gabe  Hotch- 
kiss, but  he  said  that  the  man  who  married  his 
niece  ought  to  be  able  to  make  his  own  way 
without  coming  to  him,  and  he  was  right.’  ” 

“Well,  well,  well,”  said  the  Doctor.  <c  How 
much  more  of  this  is  there  ? You  gloated  over 
the  poor  fellow’s  helplessness,  and  then  triumphed 
over  the  girl  like  an  anthropoid  ape.” 

c<  Yes.  I asked  him  if  he  was  in  business  for 
himself,  if  he  would  immediately  get  married,  and 
he  said  he  would.  He  even  insulted  me  by  letting 
his  eye  sparkle  a little.” 

“Well,  well,  have  done  with  it  — you  smashed 
your  poor  rival  with  his  own  poverty.” 

“ No,  I didn’t.” 

“ Well,  what  did  you  do  ? ” 

“ I lent  him  the  six  hundred  dollars.” 

“ What  — ” 

cc  I told  him  that  one  gentleman  could  do  another 
a good  turn  when  it  was  in  his  way,  without  being 
paid  for  it.” 

The  Doctor  looked  into  the  fire  a moment. 

3°9 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

He  did  not  like  to  acknowledge  that  I had  the 
turn  on  him,  and  that  he  had  blown  off  a great 
deal  more  steam  than  was  necessary.  “ Til  just 
get  these  heavy  boots  off,”  he  said. 

“ Do,”  I replied,  “and  drop  all  the  other  things 
that  annoy  you  at  the  same  time.  I haven’t  quite 
relinquished  my  grip  on  my  own  waistband.” 
Dear  old  leviathan  ! He  never  was  so  majesti- 
cally human  as  during  the  next  hour.  He  was 
unreservedly  proud,  I could  see,  although  he 
tried  to  hide  it,  that  his  patient  had  not  made  a 
monkey  of  himself,  as  he  called  it.  He  advised 
me  to  read  the  story  of  “Undine,”  and  slapped 
me  on  the  back  once  or  twice  before  he  was  quite 
aware  of  it,  and  pulled  out  new  jack-knives  and 
things  from  his  capacious  overcoat  pocket  for 
Charlie.  When  he  was  comfortably  spread  out 
before  the  fire,  he  brought  forth  a city  news- 
paper. 

“ There  may  be  a bit  of  good  news  in  it,”  he 
said.  “Look  at  the  quotations.  If  you  had  dis- 
appointed me,  I’ll  be  hanged  if  I wouldn’t  have 
carried  it  back  without  telling  you.” 

I uttered  a note  of  surprise.  “ Why,  the  Es- 
meralda is  up  in  the  clouds  — twenty  points.” 
“Yes,  so  I see.  If  you  had  stayed  in  the 
market,  you’d  have  sold  out.  It  is  like  one  of 
those  letters  of  Napoleon’s  that  he  did  not  open. 
It  answered  itself,  and  it’s  so  with  a good  many 
other  things.” 

I was  figuring  on  the  margin  of  the  paper,  and 
did  not  heed  him. 


310 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  EXILES 


cc  Trying  to  calculate  the  amount  of  anxiety  and 
stress  you’ve  missed  ? ” he  asked. 

“ No,  I was  figuring  the  gain.  It’s  a pretty 
nice  lump.” 

“ I congratulate  you,”  he  said.  c<  When  a man 
can  plant  his  mining  stock  as  the  farmer  plants 
his  turnips,  and  doesn’t  worry,  the  stock-market 
will  be  as  healthful  as  a truck-garden.” 

I did  not  exult  very  much.  Somebody  had 
somewhere  said  that  good  luck  always  comes  to  a 
man  when  he  has  lost  the  zest  for  it.  I did  not 
seem  to  care  so  much  just  at  that  moment.  The 
good  news  seemed  belated  and  somehow  slightly 
trivial. 

But  the  Doctor  was  exuberant.  cc  I withdraw 
my  prescription,”  he  said.  cc  You  shall  go  back 
with  me.  I think  I can  trust  you  now  even  in 
the  jaws  of  Wall  Street.” 

“ I’m  in  no  hurry,”  I replied.  “ Gabe  brought 
me  over  a bunch  of  winter  carnations  this  morn- 
ing. They  were  white.  It  was  like  a message 
of  high  esteem,  and  I think  I’ll  stay  over  and 
stand  up  with  that  young  wheelwright.  But  I’ll 
tell  you  what  Til  do,  Doctor.  I will  eat  dinner 
with  you  at  your  own  house  on  Easter,  if  you  will 
promise  not  to  lecture.” 

We  sat  there  and  talked  it  all  over,  and  the 
Doctor  slowly  drew  out  of  me  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  moral  convalescence.  He  said  I had 
put  on  sandals  and  walked  with  the  mysteries. 
I dare  say  he  was  right.  I can  only  tell  how 
Nature  had  affected  a stranger  who  took  her  in 

311 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

and  entertained  her  unawares.  Some  of  her  Darks, 
as  Carlyle  calls  them,  have  lightened  a little  under 
an  equable  internal  flame.  Her  horizons  are  so 
wide  and  her  balances  so  perfect,  that  I do  not 
see  how  the  apothecary  observer  can  help  laying 
aside  his  small  scales,  and  paying  tribute  to  the 
immeasurable  equilibriums  and  purposes,  or  avoid 
arriving  at  the  serene  acknowledgement  of  a league- 
less Somewhat  to  which  a universe  of  things  is 
tending.  That  he  will,  if  he  gives  up  a little  to 
Nature,  become  either  a Pantheist  with  some  of 
the  philosophers,  or  a mere  gatherer  like  some  of 
the  savants,  it  is  not  for  me  to  say.  But  I feel 
confident  that  a healthy  adjustment  of  faculties, 
and  the  suspension  of  an  aggressive  egotism,  put 
a man  en  rapport  with  new  harmonies  that  he  never 
before  suspected.  If  he  walk  in  the  cordial  but 
silent  woods,  he  finds  that  the  defiance  goes  out  of 
his  vertebrae,  and  he  is  acquiring  the  bowed  head ; 
and  if  we  look  narrowly  here  we  shall  find,  I 
think,  that  the  bowed  head  of  the  savant  and  the 
saint  are  the  tokens  of  a similar  but  unequal 
humility.  These  conclusions  bore  into  one’s  old 
timbers  unobserved  like  the  teredo,  when  one 
lives  apart  from  his  fellows  for  a while ; so  that  I 
grew  to  think  with  the  Doctor,  that  it  was  good 
for  every  man  to  have  hermit  hours,  and  to  keep 
a wilderness  somewhere  into  which  he  can  escape 
from  himself.  In  such  sequestered  moments  tides 
of  soft  intimations  come  from  afar,  and  there  are 
apt  to  be  astral  banners  fluttering  in  one’s  out- 
reach — whisperings  of  origins  and  outcomes, 

312 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  EXILES 


never  before  heard  in  the  soft  procession  of  the 
universes ; faint,  kindly  voices  reaching  up  from 
the  lowliest  processes,  trying  to  speak  of  kinship 
and  fatherhood.  There  are  new  and  tiny  links 
far  down  the  inscrutable  depths,  and  they  glitter 
in  the  gloom  with  threads  of  promise,  forever 
weaving  the  continuity  and  indestructibility  of  life 
in  a majestic  synthesis. 

I think  it  is  an  unforced  similitude  to  say  that 
I came  to  Nature  very  much  as  a recreant  son  is 
carried  on  a litter  to  his  old  mother.  I had  a 
generous  contempt  for  the  “old  woman  ” who  did 
not  know  as  much  as  I did.  But  her  homely 
balms  put  me  on  my  feet.  I grew  insensibly  to 
perceive  that  some  bereavements  are  not  blows 
but  benisons ; and  as  my  physical  system  re- 
adjusted itself,  my  moral  apprehension  took  on 
a keener  edge.  That  is  all. 

All  that  I have  been  telling  here  took  place 
well  along  into  February.  The  Doctor  went 
back,  and  there  were  days  of  dull  imprisonment 
when  we  were  encompassed  by  the  acrid  storms 
of  the  season.  Rain  and  snow  and  sleet ; with  the 
thermometer  lurking  stubbornly  at  zero,  and  the 
monotony  of  it  all  becoming  unbearable.  But  let 
me  say  without  any  boasting  that  I was  strangely 
cheerful,  if  not  jolly,  under  it  all  — with  some 
kind  of  inner  complacency  that  was  like  a new 
vital  spring.  Something  had  gone  out  of  my 
life,  but  the  vacuum  was  filled  by  something  new 
that  had  come  into  it.  What  it  was,  I can  hardly 
find  words  to  tell.  “ When  the  spring  comes,  we 

3I3 


A JOURNEY  TO  NATURE 

will  go  back,”  I had  said  to  Charlie.  And  how 
we  longed  for  it.  The  season  seemed  to  have 
stuck  fast  while  we  watched  the  sunshine  on  the 
wall,  and  there  were  long  days  when  there  was 
no  sunshine.  But  there  were  little  premonitions. 
The  inhabitants  under  the  floor  were  getting  more 
lively,  and  then  one  night  we  heard  that  peep, 
peep  from  the  pond,  — the  first  stir  of  life  in  the 
warming  earth. 

It  was  in  March  that  the  announcement  was 
officially  made.  The  Doctor  had  sent  me  a thin 
little  book  of  Maurice  Thompson’s,  and  one  verse 
of  his  tells  the  whole  story  as  nobody  else  can 
tell  it : — 

((1  heard  the  woodpecker  pecking. 

The  sapsucker  tenderly  sing  ; 

I turned  and  looked  out  of  my  window. 

And  lo,  it  was  spring.” 

What  more  have  I to  tell  you  ? Our  idyl  of 
exile  was  done.  We  were  to  go  away,  taking  with 
us  some  soft  memories  of  happy  hours  and  sacred 
companionship,  inwrought,  at  least  for  me,  with 
some  gracious  lessons. 

One  morning  we  stood  on  the  platform  at  the 
Spelldown  station,  watching  the  men  put  our  boxes 
into  the  baggage-car.  A soft  breeze  came  down 
from  the  direction  of  the  Hotchkiss  woods,  bring- 
ing, I thought,  the  odour  of  the  swelling  rose  vines 
and  lilac  bushes.  Lilacs.  It  gave  me  a little 
momentary  twinge.  Then  I straightened  myself, 
and  tried  to  whistle  a bit  of  the  hymn  “ Onward, 

3H 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  EXILES 

Christian  Soldiers,”  but  I didn’t  know  it,  and  I 
fancy  it  ran  into  cc  Listen  to  the  Mocking-bird.” 
“ Come  on,  Comrade,”  I said.  “ Let  us  say 
good-by  to  the  country  and  get  aboard.” 

When  we  were  seated  in  the  car,  Charlie  pointed 
through  the  window  with  his  finger.  Men  and 
boys  were  moving  about  in  careless  and  animated 
groups ; and  at  one  corner  of  the  platform,  quite 
alone,  was  the  yellow  dog,  — the  most  woebegone 
picture  of  canine  neglect  and  grief  I ever  saw. 
Her  head  drooped,  her  tail  hung  limp,  and  she 
was  wrapped  in  her  own  desolation.  Charlie 
impulsively  cried  out,  cc  Good-by,  Lilah,”  and  the 
sound  striking  against  the  depot  made  the  dog 
turn  her  head,  cock  her  ears,  and  wag  her  tail  as 
she  expectantly  looked  for  the  familiar  owner  of 
the  voice  ; then  realizing  that  it  was  an  illusion, 
she  walked  wearily  away. 

This  was  a little  too  much  for  me.  I went  out, 
called  to  her,  and  when  she  came  gladly,  I took 
her  by  the  back  of  the  neck,  put  her  into  the 
baggage-car,  and  gave  the  baggageman  a dollar. 

And  so  my  last  act  was  to  interfere  with  the 
nature  of  things,  for  the  yellow  dog  came  to  the 
city  with  us. 


